


Slithering

by twistedmiracle



Series: SlitherIn [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Don't copy to another site, Draco doesn't want to be gay, Draco uses gay slurs, Harry tries to make Draco jealous, Hogwarts, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, TM's drabbles, Teenage Drama, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 23:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20665892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedmiracle/pseuds/twistedmiracle
Summary: We continue on, almost seamlessly, from the first installment. Probably best to read these in order.





	Slithering

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: **They aren't mine, they belong to the clever Scottish lady. I just bend them and love them. Please don't smack me for playing. It isn't like I am going to earn any money from this!
> 
> Originally written for the DracoHarry100 community, in 100 word chunks. New prompts each week!  
http://dracoharry100.dreamwidth.org/

Two nights later, relaxing with everybody in the Gryffindor common room, Harry casually initiated his new plan. “Hermione, remember that guy you wanted to introduce me to? From your summer internship?”

“Of course,” Hermione agreed, looking up from her textbook. Lavender looked up, too. “That was months ago, though. Why mention him now?”

“I’m lonely,” Harry said bluntly. Leaning forward, he pretended not to notice Seamus and Parvati listening. “There are no gay blokes my age at Hogwarts. So I should give that guy from London a chance. Even if he is two years older.”

“I’ll owl Aamin,” Hermione smiled.

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Aamin was as dull and sweet as Harry had assumed from Hermione’s descriptions. But he was nonetheless tall, dark, and handsome. He met Harry at the Hogwarts gates with students streaming past, seemingly everyone noticing him. His Pakistani accent was sexy and his neatly trimmed black beard made him look every bit of 20 years old. Better, though he had dressed conservatively, anyone could see he had a great body.

Harry was careful to ignore Malfoy, but when he went over the day in his Pensieve, his jealousy was starkly obvious. Malfoy _hated_ seeing Harry visit Hogsmeade with another man.

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“You seemed to get along with Aamin. Do you want him to call again?”

Harry glowered toward Hermione as they walked toward Hagrid’s. Why’d she ask in private? But she didn’t know about his Malfoy-related plans (or Malfoy-related indiscretions), and he wasn’t ready to spill. And, he realized, blushing, she’d been awfully nice about Aamin, starting when she’d first mentioned him in June. He could still tell the truth, though. “Aamin was sweet but dull, Hermione. Can you introduce me to anyone else?”

“Maybe?” she looked thoughtful.

“Let’s talk about it at lunch,” Harry suggested as they reached Hagrid’s door.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“How’s Hagrid?” Neville asked as they sat at the Gryffindor table.

“Great!” Hermione gushed.

“Yeah!” Harry agreed, taking chicken and potatoes. “He misses us in class, but he’s excited about several first years who love the animals he’s teaching, and McGonagall told him he’s doing a great job.”

“Then how’s _Aamin_?” Seamus asked, grinning impishly.

“Er,” Harry said, looking at the table and pretending he didn’t know what to say.

“It’s ok,” Parvati soothed. “I saw he wasn’t purely… your type.”

“Thanks.” Harry concentrated on his deepening flush.

“Harry wishes to meet someone else,” Hermione said primly.

Six Gryffindors grinned.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“I should introduce you to my gay cousin Kalyan—“ Parvati began.

“No, he should meet my neighbor, Flynn,” Seamus interrupted. “He’s such a great guy!”

“Harry,” Lavender said quietly, leaning across the table. “I’d like to introduce you to my dear friend William.”

“No,” Parvati was yelling, “I’m sure Kalyan is more Harry’s physical type. You saw that tall, dark-haired Aamin guy. Pure sex!”

“Flynn is rock solid!” Seamus growled back. “He plays minor league Quidditch!”

“Really?” Harry asked, unable to help himself. He wanted back in Malfoy’s bed, of course, but some of these guys sounded pretty brill.

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“You don’t have to limit yourself,” Hermione said.

Three Gryffindors startled.

“It’s purely about manners and honesty,” Hermione continued calmly. “If you don’t lead anyone on, it’s perfectly acceptable to go on various dates while you look for someone who appeals on multiple levels.”

And when she put it like that, Harry felt simultaneously better and worse. He’d not been honest with Malfoy. Especially when _sneaking into the other bloke’s room to spy_. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be frank with other men. He’d been honest with Aamin at the end, and that had been… awkward, but ultimately ok.

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All his friends were looking at him over their chicken and potatoes, and Harry was having no difficulty at all appearing embarrassed, pleased and purely in need of their assistance. “I don’t yet know what sort of man I want to date,” he said quietly, feeling the lie almost catch in his throat. “I’m so… inexperienced.”

Parvati patted Harry’s hand and Lavender gave him a warm, caring smile. Seamus snickered quietly at the admission but Neville spoke up. “And there’s nothing to be ashamed about with _that_,” he said firmly.

Harry could see the way everyone chose to agree. “Thanks.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“All those boys should compete for Harry’s attention,” Lavender murmured to Parvati in the common room.

“_No one_ is entering a contest,” Harry interrupted Lavender and Parvati.

“I didn’t see you there!” Lavender sputtered.

Harry glowered. Lavender looked toward Parvati, who refused to defend her.

“Would you really meet Kalyan?” Parvati asked him, instead.

“Or William?” Lavender said.

“You should meet Flynn, rather!” Seamus piped up from across the room.

Harry motioned Seamus and Neville over to join him and the girls. “Tell me about _all_ of them,” he said, confident Malfoy would hear gossip about this conversation by breakfast.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Gotta face facts,” Harry decided as he punched his pillow later that week. “Malfoy’s never coming ‘round.”

Disaffected and grumpy, Harry had retired early. But now, comfortable, naked and lonely, he could only toss and turn while ruminating on failing plans. Malfoy had obviously hated seeing him with Aamin, but hadn’t made a single move in response. He’d just seethed in silence. Briefly.

Harry had watched Malfoy eavesdrop as a pack of Gryffindors discussed potential boyfriends over lunch. Harry knew he’d heard gossip about the common room conversation. Parvati’d had detention with Parkinson that very night! Still, though. No reactions.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He’d been avoiding his Pensieve. He’d vowed not to view stolen memories. Hermione’s innocent words about “manners and honesty” had filled Harry with guilt. He’d shown Malfoy not a lick of either by thieving access to his nudity, memories of his body.

Harry was ashamed of himself. He’d barely even apologized, unless four blowjobs counted.

But without a good Pensieve wank, how would he fall asleep tonight?

Except…. Cursing his foolishness, Harry rushed out of bed. He’d _licit_ memories! The sex had been lousy, but he could still wank to memories of sucking Malfoy’s beautiful cock. With permission.

“Pensieve, dildo….”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The next morning, Harry emerged wearing a smile.

Hermione noticed immediately. She took his arm and they headed toward breakfast.

“You’ve been so restless, what’s changed?”

“I’ve been a grumpy, obnoxious brat, you mean.” Harry grinned as more eighth years joined them.

“So you know the facts!” Parvati laughed. “But what’s changed?” She made room for Lavender, who took her arm and looked avidly toward Harry, still grinning.

“I just remembered,” Harry said as Neville opened the doors and they all trundled into the Great Hall together, “I already have everything I need. I don’t need a boyfriend at all.”

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The quality of Harry’s life improved when he realized he could get by fine on his few, consensually obtained, memories of Malfoy. His Gryffindor friends were still nominally interested in setting him up with young men they knew outside Hogwarts, but when Harry stopped actively encouraging them, most of these plans withered on the vine.

The only exception was Seamus, but – as it happened – his neighbor Flynn had a new boyfriend, and was not interested.

Now Harry wasn’t miserably chasing after a boy who didn’t want him, he could enjoy Quidditch, meals, and even classes more.

Bedtime was good, too.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Wrung out, smiling, Harry emerged from his Pensieve. His new plan was _great_. Human vision was higher quality than snakes, so he could see Malfoy’s cock better now. He was sleeping more, too, because he no longer wasted time sneaking in and out of the other boy’s room.

Granted, Malfoy had done things Harry missed watching; _especially_ taking his sweet time wanking in the shower. But watching himself suck Malfoy’s cock was nonetheless good to get Harry off – every night for the last two weeks.

Even better, though Harry had mostly stopped looking, even he could see Malfoy was… agitated.

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Three days later, Malfoy managed to corner Harry alone after Charms. “So who’s the new _boy_friend, Potter? This new, unknown quantity.” He sneered. “Londoner? Foreigner? _Muggle_? Not at Hogwarts, obviously.”

Harry cocked one hip and sneered right back. “What makes you think I have a boyfriend?” 

Malfoy snarled back. “You’re so fucking happy all the damn time.”

Harry’s grin was cold. “Jealous?”

“Yes, you fucker, I am. Happy?”

“Yes. Because I don’t _have_ a boyfriend, Malfoy. I’m happy because I stopped chasing after _you_.” Marveling that his plan had finally worked only after he’d given up on it, Harry vamoosed.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

They were the last ones to leave the classroom, and Malfoy was blocking the door. “Excuse me,” Harry said, trying hard to be polite, despite everything. But Malfoy didn’t move.

“I was thinking, Potter,” Malfoy said, clearly striving for a casual demeanor. “That blowjob was spectacular.”

“Which one?” Harry snarked, unable to keep his mouth shut. “I gave you four.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy agreed, and he blushed. “I’d be open to another.”

Harry clenched both fists in an effort not to hex Malfoy impotent. Or rainbow-covered. “Look elsewhere, you homophobic arsehole,” he finally snarled, and shoved Malfoy out of the doorway.

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**Dear Diary,  
In my defense, no one gives head like Potter. Maybe because he _has_ a cock, so he understands what I want? But it’s a shitty excuse. I shouldn’t want him, and I don’t need him. I’m sure that vapid little dingbat, Asteria, would let me fuck her. She’s probably still a virgin, so her cunt would be delicious. Tight from lack of cock, and muscularly tight, too, because she’d be scared that I won’t actually marry her the whole time I was taking what I want. Which, of course, I wouldn’t. Like I’d marry a girl that stupid!**

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**Pansy might suck me again, but then I’d have to give _her_ head. BLECH. I’m never doing that again. Cunt is for my cock, not my mouth.**

**Tracey sucked me once, but it was horrible. She wanted my attention on her face.**

**I assumed Millicent would be easy, but those huge tits! Why do girls insist I grab and suck their gross boobs?**

**My hand isn’t cutting it anymore. I want to come inside someone else. Someone whose face won’t disgust me, who won’t think it means marriage, and who won’t pout when I excuse myself immediately. I sleep alone.**

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Harry ended the snooping spell on Malfoy’s diary, torn between triumph and disgust. He was so much better off alone. What a bastard! Harry should find some excuse to warn Asteria, whoever that was. She might be about to give her virginity to a liar.

Despite Malfoy’s character, Harry couldn’t help but feel proud. Malfoy was an arse, but he was an _obsessed_ arse, who couldn’t stay away. Unlike Harry, who was perfectly fine without Malfoy!

Pleased with his endurance, Harry stripped and dove into his Pensieve. He’d wank to memories of giving Malfoy a blowjob and sleep _so_ well.

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Neville, Parvati and Hermione left the library early on Tuesday, but Harry stayed late to finish a Transfiguration assignment. If he couldn’t be an Auror (and the Elder Wand’s master sure as hell couldn’t) he had to figure out what else he was good at. And, frankly, he was damn good at Transfiguration.

He'd finished his essay and dried the ink, when a shadow fell across his parchment and books. He looked up. Malfoy was standing between Harry and the candles illuminating his table.

“Well,” Harry said, leaning back. He crossed his arms over his chest. “This oughta be entertaining.”

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“No need to be… contrary,” Malfoy said, and sat gracefully in the chair opposite. “I thought to come by. Say hello.”

“Chat?” Harry snarled.

“Lovely,” Malfoy agreed, as though chatting had actually been Harry’s idea. “I’d enjoy that.” His smile had too many teeth.

“It’s late,” Harry said. “Pince will kick us out in ten minutes. Less. We’ve no time to ‘chat’.”

Slowly, Malfoy looked down at his watch. Then he raised one slender eyebrow, as though the information he found there was a surprise. “You’re right,” he agreed easily. “Perhaps you should come to mine.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

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“Let’s spend some time,” Malfoy said, ignoring Harry’s face. “We could stay up late, talk, see what develops. I know what you wanted, before. I’d be up for something more mutual this time, as long as it wasn’t, y’know, fucking.” He blushed deeply, in spite of himself.

Harry stood. He stepped closer to Malfoy, preventing the other boy from standing. Then he leaned in aggressively.

“I would rather,” Harry hissed, “vomit up slugs.” Then Harry flourished his wand in Malfoy’s face. Malfoy flinched but Harry had only gathered his books, papers and quill. They followed obediently as Harry stalked away.

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Harry had been quite proud of his dramatic library exit. He felt he’d managed to imply he’d moved so far beyond wanting Malfoy they might as well be on different continents. His robes and wandwork had looked fabulous, too. Harry had checked in his Pensieve.

And it seemed to work. A few days went by without any annoying Malfoy nonsense. Harry continued his surreptitious but technically acceptable Pensieve wanks every night, and tried to look haughty every morning when he entered places where Malfoy might be looking at him.

Until early Saturday when an owl awakened him, pecking his window.

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Malfoy’s owl was handsome and large. A strong flyer, he hovered at Harry’s window for a long moment while Harry woke up, figured out what noise woke him so damn early (_Wha? an owl?_), and blearily pulled on a dressing gown before opening the window. It waited patiently while Harry fumbled the rolled letter off its leg. It didn’t nip Harry’s fingers or beg for a snack.

But Malfoy’s _owl_ was pathetic. The parchment was smudged, the handwriting messy, and the missive itself pitiful. Harry read it once, then had to sit to read it again, slowly, just to believe.

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**Potter. Harry. I know it’s far too early on a Saturday morning, but please hear me out. I was a total arse – in bed and out. I know that now. I’m also very sorry. I treated you like you didn’t matter and I was the only one who was important. I shouldn’t treat anyone like that, but it amazed me when I figured it out (over whiskey with Pansy) that the person I treated like a nobody was the biggest somebody in the whole school.**

**I’m at your door. Please, let me in. I promise to be what you want.**

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Wand in hand, Harry opened his door. Malfoy looked… bedraggled. Instead of looking at Harry, his eyes were cast at the floor. Instead of threatened by Harry’s outstretched wand, his own drooped from his robe pocket. His hands were not at his hips, or reaching out to attack. They didn’t offer a handshake. Limp, they barely clutched each other, crossed in front of Malfoy’s robe-covered cock.

Remembering, Harry licked his lips. Malfoy didn’t see, eyes still demurely hidden under blond fringe.

Flicking his wand, Harry searched for dangers, but found only what he saw.

Finally, Malfoy spoke. “May I stay?”

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Trying (and utterly failing) to feel triumphant, Harry ushered Malfoy into his messy room. “Have a seat,” he suggested. Malfoy obeyed quickly, choosing the edge of the bed, instead of the chair or windowsill.

Harry looked at Malfoy with dismay. What was he supposed to do now? He didn’t want to fuck this sad clown. He sat on his desk, feet on his chair, and looked at this silent, humbled Malfoy.

“What do you want?” Harry eventually sighed.

“To stay,” Malfoy answered immediately.

“And?” Harry demanded. He gestured broadly. “Get a blowjob? Fuck my arse? Be my _boyfriend_?”

Malfoy winced.

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“I was an arse,” Malfoy murmured to the floor. “But the sex was… brilliant. I miss it, even though we only had one night.” He looked shyly through his lovely pale fringe. Harry felt his resolve slip slightly.

“If you let me stay,” Malfoy tried, “I won’t refuse you anything, not straightaway. We can… discuss it. I’ll consider anything.”

“Hmm,” Harry said, balancing his wand on one hand and pretending to feel calm. “You already know I like getting fucked.”

“I’m definitely willing to do anal,” Malfoy said quickly. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. You were…” he winced again. “clear.”

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“Very well,” Harry said, deciding to test him. “You can stay. Strip. Lay on my bed. Stroke yourself hard, then I’ll climb on and take a ride.”

Malfoy jerked his head up in shock. “Really?” he whispered, then seemed to think better of awaiting Harry’s answer. He yanked his robes off to reveal nothing but loose, silky pants that went from his waist to just above the knee. He sat on Harry’s bed, yanked off both shoes and then both socks, stuffing the second into the first. Then, blushing to his ears, he yanked off his pants and lay down.

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Still in pajamas and dressing gown, wand still gripped firmly in his right hand, Harry hopped down and strolled the few steps to his bed. Pretending he didn’t care that Malfoy was blushing and silent, he trailed his fingers along Malfoy's shin, knee, thigh. He placed Malfoy's hand on his flaccid cock, then made a show of staring until Malfoy began to caress himself.

“Better,” Harry said, then went back to trailing fingertips along the smooth, warm skin of his new prize.

“I _might_ be glad to have you stay.” Harry mused. “Only, how do you feel about kissing me?”

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“Er,” Malfoy said, looking miserable.

Harry was livid. “If you won’t kiss me, on the mouth, with tongue, _go_!”

“But I want to fuck!” Draco wailed, still tugging his cock.

“Fucking me means kissing me, Malfoy,” Harry insisted vindictively. He paused. “I’ll make you a deal. After we fuck, get hard again. I’ll let you come in my mouth. After that I won’t expect another kiss. Not until you come back again, looking for another fuck.”

Malfoy swallowed, then put on a brave face. “Okay.”

Harry smiled. Then he undressed and got on the bed. “Kiss me now,” he demanded.

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“More skin,” Draco requested, so Harry cuddled close. Eyes shut, Malfoy found Harry’s mouth.

His own eyes closed, Harry tried to enjoy Malfoy’s awkward kisses. He reached for Malfoy’s cock and Malfoy responded. Kisses changed: hesitant to eager. Harry rubbed Malfoy’s cock with his own, and as their foreskins caught at one another and Malfoy rolled on top of him, kisses went from eager to deep.

“Hands and knees?” Harry said, trying not to telegraph resentment.

“Nooo,” Malfoy said, looking embarrassed, “I like… face to face. Give that a go?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, and prepared himself with a quick spell.

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Harry lay next to Malfoy, but got a nudge. “You on top,” Malfoy said.

Surprised but willing, Harry complied. Slowly, with pleasure, he fitted himself down over Malfoy's cock. “Mmmm,” he hummed. “Been too long.” Malfoy’s eyes were closed, but his dick was hard and his body was at least as beautiful as Harry recalled.

“This position… wasn’t expected,” Harry admitted as he lifted himself and sank back down.

“Sprained my hamstring during Quidditch,” Malfoy mumbled.

He opened his eyes to answer Harry, and Harry locked eyes with him. “Works for me,” he said, falsely casual. “I prefer this position.”

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“Brill,” Malfoy said, sounding falsely casual himself. But his eyes stayed open. “You can do all the work.”

“Lucky for you I’m in great shape,” Harry huffed. “Now hush. I need dick, not chatter.”

“Kiss me, then,” Malfoy said, again sounding fake. “I like to talk during sex.”

Harry tried to raise one eyebrow but Malfoy just laughed quietly. “Arse,” Harry said, and spread his legs a bit. Then he reached out for his wand, spelled a pillow under Draco’s arse, and inflated it into a wedge. With Malfoy curled up, Harry could easily lean over and snog him, hard.

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For a straight bloke, Malfoy could _fuck_. His mouth was eager. Sharp. He liked tongue. He liked biting. He liked leaving little mouth shapes on Harry’s neck. Collarbone. Shoulder.

Draco’s hands _possessed_ Harry’s arse. He grabbed. Pinched. Spread Harry’s cheeks wide for one thrust, then pushed them together for the next.

The wedge of pillow under his arse might as well have had springs in, too. He claimed to want Harry to do all the work, but his dick hammered Harry’s wet hole. Harry was going to explode all over Draco’s tight abs far sooner than he’d expected. Or wanted.

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“Don’t wanna come yet,” Harry whispered, expecting Draco to refuse him. Surprisingly, Draco nodded, then took in one deep, calming breath. They slowed down. Harry settled his arse down into the resting shape of Draco’s pelvis and thighs. Draco was deep into him now; he wriggled on Draco’s cock instead of bouncing.

“How d’you wanna come?”

Harry contemplated the question. There were so many fantastic ways to come during sex. “Tonight,” he mused, “I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”

“Why not?” Draco said as though it meant nothing, and he flipped them over and started to pound.

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Draco kissed Harry. Fucked Harry. Watched Harry’s face while Harry spurted come wildly, abandoned. Then Draco fucked Harry some more and came deep in his arse. “You promised me a blowjob,” he chided when Harry’s eyes started to close. “So tired,” Harry whined, and then Draco relented and they napped together for a while.

When Harry woke, his little fire had burned down low, and he watched dancing shapes on the walls for a moment, before casting a gentle cleansing spell on Draco’s flaccid cock.

Draco didn’t stir at the spell, but he did when Harry began to lick him.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Mm,” Draco said, and stroked his fingers through Harry’s messy hair.

“Promised you a blowjob,” Harry said, and nipped at Draco’s thighs.

“So good,” Draco said, and rolled onto his back.

Harry followed, pressing fingertips into his thighs, bobbing his head. He was hard. He craved Draco’s smell, shape, getting pounded. But sucking him was good. Their bargain of a cock-sucking for every arse-pounding was smart. Even if this position tired his neck.

He rolled them so Draco could fuck his face, and Draco came soon after.

Harry swallowed it all. Waited for Draco to leave.

But Draco… fell asleep.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

By the time Draco woke up, Harry had showered, dressed, and nearly finished an essay McGonagall had given him in lieu of a detention. He couldn’t leave Malfoy alone in his bedroom, but he’d been quite unable to wake someone so exhausted.

He didn’t turn around when he heard Draco stir. Instead, he spoke, looking down at the careful circles he’d drawn, illustrating Janzorti’s Geomantic principle. “Sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you,” Draco answered. He sounded… sincere. Harry was surprised, and turned around. Draco was lounging, nude, hard and smug. “I need to come,” he said. “Is your arse available?”

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Harry tipped his head and looked Draco in the eye instead of speaking.

“We can fuck until you come,” Draco continued, “then you suck my dick while we shower?”

Surprised to be so tempted, Harry didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure whether he was more likely to blurt ‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ but he didn’t want to make a snap decision either way.

Malfoy took his indecision as a challenge. He spread his legs, then bent one at the knee. He stroked his cock, and Harry felt his own respond to the sight. Such a beautiful man, hard and eager. For him.

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“Your attitude has certainly done a 180,” Harry said, choosing to see where an aloof pose might get him.

“What can I say,” Draco said, still stroking himself – with two hands now. “Your arse is tight and hot, you like my cock, and I can’t possibly be accused of getting you pregnant. This school is full of bitches whose list of assets can hardly touch yours. While I’m stuck in school for an extra year, my dick still works despite having to postpone marriage to whatever little blonde pureblooded twat Mother manages to snooker into taking my disgraced last name.”

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Draco lay naked, hard and masturbating on his bed. Harry had to have that, despite Malfoy’s bitchiness and selfish nattering about others. He started to strip, tossing his clothes over his chair. “You expected to be married already?” he asked, working the tight, circular neckline of his undershirt over his glasses.

“Yes,” Draco said briefly. His eyes were all over Harry’s skin. “To get a head start on babymaking. My parents only had one. I’m to fix that. Been told a thousand times. I’m to knock up my blonde witch every couple years until she can’t pump any more out.”

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“You disgust me,” Harry said, completely sincere. He climbed on the bed, grabbed Draco’s cock, and began to work it in.

“I disgust you, but you just shoved my cock in your arse,” Draco said, gripping Harry’s hips and smiling like a shark.

“I’m as young and randy as you,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll forgive myself later. Now, if you want me to come quick, so you get that shower blowjob, I suggest you get over your homophobic bullshit and wank me while we fuck.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Draco said, eyes predatory, and kissed Harry silent.

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The heat between them was unreal, Harry reflected, watching Draco saunter away without so much as a peck on the cheek or a wave goodbye. But only while they fucked.

Well, it was hot when they fought, but that wasn’t fun, now Harry knew how they could be together.

They had looked at their class and Quidditch schedules and chosen three nights a week when Draco would come over at 9. If something came up, either could owl a cancellation. They both agreed to stick with the “one fuck, one suck, that order,” plan. The whole situation was strangely… businesslike.

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Harry’d assumed the 8th year common room was a neutral zone. So he was shocked when Draco yanked him up for a lengthy, heated, knee-weakening, public snog.

Of the room, only Draco remained calm.

“I’m no _poofter_,” Draco snarled when he had everyone’s riveted attention. His hand still controlled Harry’s collar, and would until he let go, or Harry recovered from shock. “But Potter has an itch up his arse that can only be scratched by my big cock. So we’ve an arrangement, which no one is to fuck with.”

Then he absconded, leaving Harry to deal with the explosion.

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Stupefied by Draco’s insane behavior, Harry paused, blinked, then looked around slowly at his friends.

Hermione looked furious. Parvati looked concerned. Seamus looked confused. Poor Neville looked so lost and dazed he might’ve had a stroke.

Lavender, however, sitting next to Hermione, summed up everyone’s feelings on the matter. Sitting up and looking Harry right in the eye, Lavender cleared her throat, waited for everyone’s attention, then spoke. “What. The. Fuck.”

With everyone staring at him, Harry hardly knew what to say, except the truth. “I know,” he said, feeling moronic. “He’s mean, vindictive and homophobic. But he’s so… pretty.”

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Harry hadn’t expected Draco to be possessive. But he liked to touch Harry in public. A hand on the back of Harry’s neck. A hand at the small of his back. A hand on Harry’s _thigh_, for Merlin’s sake.

Draco liked to open doors for Harry. He liked when Harry smiled at him, though he rarely smiled back.

He particularly liked to ‘pick Harry up’ as dinner ended on nights when they had their standing fuck date.

Sometimes Harry felt they were mending every fence they had ruined together as children.

Sometimes Harry felt they broke new ones every day.

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Harry enjoyed the physical attention more than he’d expected.

The fucking continued to be spectacular, which he’d not only expected, he’d demanded. If Draco didn’t deliver multiple, spectacular orgasms, it was over and they both knew it. Harry knew that ultimatum also applied to him.

Harry loved kissing Draco while they fucked, too; passionate, delicious kisses he’d never expected.

He honestly loved the way Draco was constantly touching him in public. The never-ending affection seemed to mend a hole in his soul he’d plastered over long before, then promptly tried to forget.

What he hated was the way Draco… talked.

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“I’m no faggot,” Draco would say, patting Harry’s arse in front of everyone. “I just know how not to bite the hand that feeds me.”

“I’m no poofter,” he would assert when he stopped at the Gryffindor table as dinner was ending. “I just don’t want any sneaky fags horning in on my free sex.”

“Bitches and poofs _take_ cock,” Harry once heard Draco explaining to some younger Slytherin. “Only _men_ have cocks to satisfy a lover. I _never_ receive, so I’m not queer.”

“I’m not gay like you,” he told Harry. “What _I_ am, is an opportunist.”

Harry sighed.

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Harry’s man was an arse, and Harry was tired of it. Draco was possessive and dismissive. Solicitous, yet rude as hell. A homophobic arse-fucking machine.

Harry needed a cheap, easy fix to his Draco problem. One that wouldn’t involve giving up the fucking. He was really not interested in giving up all the lovely fucking.

Maybe some competition? But no, he tried that already. Draco would see through a repeat. Especially since Harry almost certainly wouldn’t be able to fake enthusiasm for anyone who wasn’t as lithe, broad-shouldered, blonde, tall, handsome, sharp-tongued, _hung_ and…. Yeah. Harry had it pretty bad.

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Harry only fucked Draco three nights a week, which left lots of time. That Tuesday, he sat down alone in his room with a pot of tea and started to plan. Though he felt bad snooping, he nonetheless began by taking notes on Draco’s diary. After a few pages, he noticed a pattern.

**I may never fuck another girl.  
** BLECH. I'm never doing that (cunnilingus) **again.**  
(A blowjob was ‘horrible’ because)** Tracey wanted my attention on her face.  
** Why do girls insist I grab and suck their gross boobs?  
I want to come inside… someone whose face won't disgust me.

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Harry stared into his teacup, then pulled out his Pensieve and took more notes.

**Please, let me in. I promise to be what you want.  
** the sex was… brilliant. I miss it, even though we only had one night.  
If you let me stay, I won't refuse you anything... I'll consider anything.  
I'm definitely willing to do anal.  
I like… face to face.  
Your arse is tight and hot.  
This school is full of bitches whose list of assets can hardly touch yours.  
…marriage to whatever little blonde pureblooded twat Mother manages to snooker into taking my disgraced last name. 

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Finishing a second cup, Harry looked over everything he’d written. Between Draco’s hellishly incriminating diary, bolstered by some things he’d written or said out loud, Draco wasn’t exactly coming across as heterosexual. No matter what he might be constantly declaring to anyone who would listen. What straight boy found girls revolting? And not particular girls: not mean ones, or exes, or even Muggleborns. Draco apparently thought all girls ‘gross’.

Harry, in contrast, he clearly found extremely sexually attractive.

But how the hell did he point this out to Draco when he couldn’t admit to snooping into Draco’s private diary?

Fuck.

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The next time Draco fell asleep in Harry’s bed, Harry had a plan fully formed. He was nervous, but also pretty confident. By now, he knew Draco’s arrogance well, and he was willing to use it against Draco to get what he wanted.

Which, ironically enough, was Draco..

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Wake up Draco, it’s nearly breakfast time. Wanna shower together?”

“You owe me a blowjob, so, yes.”

“Here’s a towel. Hand me the soap? I’ve never heard you talk in your sleep before.”

“Wash my back, I’ll wash yours. And I do not talk in my sleep, Harry.”

“You did last night.”

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Harry watched Draco’s belief that Harry had neither the temerity nor the intelligence to lie, war with Draco’s self-perception as free of unpleasant quirks like sleep-talking.

Eventually, curiosity won.

“What do you think you heard? Scratch my back while I’m still soapy. You know, when I was supposedly talking in my sleep.”

“Oh, you definitely spoke,” Harry said as calmly as he could to Draco’s soapy back, “but you were quiet. I wonder if that’s why I never heard you before? I didn’t understand anything. It was just random words. Anyway, we should hurry if we’re going to eat breakfast.”

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So it went. Harry continued to lie carefully, casually, (not frequently!) about Draco’s “sleep talk;” Draco seemed increasingly convinced. Harry mentioned it in the shower, over squares of toast, as they walked each other to class.

Draco began to ask Harry what he’d said. Harry’s lie morphed from “I couldn’t make out words,” towards “I think it might’ve been about me.”

Draco invented a quite plausible explanation for why no one had ever mentioned this before (he slept behind warded curtains, his mumblings were quiet), and Harry never failed to be grateful Draco had no idea Harry owned a Pensieve.

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“Tonight I want to implement a night-long recording charm,” Draco declared as he arrived for his and Harry’s standard Friday fuck date.

Harry turned away, pretending he needed to put his book back on the shelf. Whatever his face was doing at present, he was sure Draco shouldn’t see it. He took a deep breath before turning around, making sure to look blandly interested. “Are you that curious about the sound of your voice when you talk in your sleep?”

“A little,” Draco admitted. “I hate that I’m the one doing it, but the only one who’ll never hear it.”

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“Sure,” Harry said calmly. “Did you want to record us fucking? That’d be fun. We should make copies. We’ll each want one.”

Draco grinned broadly. “You’re such a pervert. I love it! Yes, let’s definitely record ourselves fucking. We should make a presentation of it, fuck in multiple positions.”

Now Harry was grinning. “Excellent. Should we plan first, or fuck spontaneously?”

Draco sat on the bed to think. “Planned. I don’t want to include a recorded disagreement, or confusion.”

Harry nodded. “Or even just recording us talking, choosing what to do next. That would be kind of boring to watch.”

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Having agreed, they put together a short list for their porny presentation.

“I really want to watch you fuck me,” Harry said dreamily. “You have such a hot arse.”

“Yeah?” Draco said, sounding surprised. “I thought you just liked my cock.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Harry said, seriously. He lay back on the bed and toyed with Draco’s fingers. “I love your cock. Your cock is _great_.”

Draco’s cheeks pinked and Harry grinned to see it.

“But you’re really… fit. Everywhere.” Harry said, looking directly into Draco’s eyes. “Your legs, your chest, your neck….”

“My _neck_?” Draco said, clearly bewildered.

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“Your entire body,” Harry said intently, “is extremely fuckable.”

“Er, thanks,” Draco said, blushing past his lickable neck. He wrote something down on his script for their porny presentation. Harry read over his shoulder.

Kissing  
Undressing  
H over desk – cheeks squeezed tight  
H against bedpost  
H over bed – cheeks pulled open  
H on back, D on floor, H legs on D shoulders  
H rides – display D’s cock  
H comes D’s chest  
H sucks D, comes in H mouth

Staring at their complete script, Harry swallowed. “I’m so hard,” he said. “Let’s record.”

Draco hung the list and cast his charm.

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With the script on the wall where they could both see it (Harry wore glasses), transitioning was easy.

Since Draco was a prickly bastard, Harry let him control the movements between scenes. They kissed for longer than Harry’d expected, but undressed quickly once Draco realized he was being presented with a free hand within their agreed upon script.

Draco wanted to make each fuck last, and soon they were covered with sweat. Eventually though, Harry was allowed to come, and Draco came soon after.

“_Finite Incantatem_,” Draco said, exhausted, having forgotten his original intentions.

Harry didn’t bother to remind him.

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Saturday morning, Harry woke hard, nude, and with his lover draped around him. Draco’s erection was pressing between Harry’s still messy, still lubricated arsecheeks. Cuddling backwards into Draco’s careless, sleepy embrace, Harry tried to maneuver Draco’s cock back into his hole.

“Mm,” Draco said, kissing Harry’s neck and slipping his dick in a bit, “fuck later. Piss now.”

“Aren’t you too hard to piss?” Harry said, impaling himself further.

“Uh,” Draco said, burying his face in the back of Harry’s neck. “Am now.”

“Then fuck me,” Harry said. “We’ll shower next. You know I love sucking you while we shower.”

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Surprisingly obedient for a Malfoy, Draco answered by rolling Harry face-first into the mattress and enthusiastically fucking his entire cock into Harry’s body.

He came before Harry could, but that was okay. Harry could get them both off during the shower blowjob he owed Draco. He’d just put one hand on each cock.

Draco slipped out and hurried to the little en-suite. Harry listened to him piss, only sauntering in when Draco was done. Stroking his cock, Harry turned on the hot water. He watched Draco brush his teeth.

“Fuck,” Draco exclaimed, spitting toothpaste. “I turned off the fucking charm.”

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Harry feigned ignorance briefly.

Glaring, Draco tapped a foot, prompting Harry’s “memory.”

“Oh, yeah! We can cast it again, in future. We’ve plenty of nights.”

“Did I sleeptalk last night?”

“I didn’t hear you, no,” Harry said. “So no loss, right?”

“I suppose,” Draco said, looking a bit sulky.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Harry said, casting a cushioning charm at the shower floor.

“Yeah?” Draco said, brightening and reaching for his still half-hard dick.

“Course,” Harry said easily. He considered his next words. Should he say it was the order they’d agreed on? No. “I love sucking you.”

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“Stand up,” Draco panted after several minutes in Harry’s mouth. “I don’t want a blowjob right now. Not anymore. I want to come in your arse again.”

Harry stood quickly, leaning his back against the shower wall. Draco pressed forward and kissed him, then together they slid his cock back into Harry’s ready, tender hole. Pushing Harry up against the wall, Draco fucked him, nice and slow, alternating kisses with nips and grunts.

“Jerk yourself off while I fuck you,” he finally said. “We need to get to breakfast, but I want to watch you come while I’m inside you.”

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Draco watched Harry come, as requested. He ejaculated enthusiastically inside Harry. He cleaned Harry gently while they finished showering, then he asked Harry to wear a particular jumper under his school robes. “Looks good on you,” he said, without a shred of insecurity or self-consciousness.

They headed into the Great Hall together, Draco’s hand warm in the small of Harry’s back, and Draco settled Harry at the Gryffindor bench with a proprietary, possessive kiss on the mouth.

Then Draco declared he would eat with the Slytherins, and left. Harry watched Draco’s arse as he walked away from the Gryffindor table.

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Harry re-watched the porno he and Draco had recorded the week before. It was his third viewing, and the presentation had lost none of its allure in the repetition. The two of them looked fucking amazing together. He’d already known that, though, having re-adopted the technique of jerking off to Pensieve memories on the nights when he didn’t fall asleep with Draco’s come still fucked deep into his arse.

How the hell that hot moron thought he was straight completely escaped Harry. He had to fix Draco’s misperception, and soon. Draco’s homophobia was really starting to screw with Harry’s head.

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**Dear Mrs Malfoy,**

**I hope me writing you isn’t low-class, but ever since you saved my life I’ve felt connected, in a weird way I don’t think I can further explain. Obviously I’m really grateful, and I hope you saw that when I testified for you and Draco and stuff.**

**Speaking of Draco, I don’t know if you’ve heard any gossip, but he and I are sort of seeing each other. In some ways it’s great. He’s so beautiful. I think he gets a lot of that beauty from you. Not that I’m trying to suck up! But he did.**

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**See, I’ve no idea how you feel about him being gay or anything, but all he says is furious and complete denial. He keeps saying our relationship isn’t real, it’s all just convenience, an outlet. Even though we’re lovers (sorry, I know you’re his mum), he calls me faggot and poofter but he says he isn’t. I feel so low sometimes.**

**Recently I explained how sometimes he talks in his sleep. Real quiet, and it’s, uh, funny how no one else has ever heard it. I hope you understand? But I know you’re super smart, so I bet you do.**

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**Anyway, if I overheard him say certain things in his sleep? Plus if his mum felt like saving my life again, only less literally this time? Maybe it could be good for everyone.**

**Or maybe you hate gays too. But if you heard the terrible things he says about girls, like the “little blonde pureblooded tw*t Mother manages to snooker into taking my disgraced last name,” all I can think is you probably wouldn’t want him to treat a nice young lady low and mean like that. Especially if you’d liked her enough to make her part of your family.**

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**I know we’re young. I’m not proposing to marry Draco or raise babies any time soon. But I was hoping you wanted him to be happy (with me?), and I’m probably naïve, but maybe you’d like if I was happy with him? And, no matter how he speaks, your opinion is important to him. He really thinks you’re brilliant, honestly. And he feels really low and stuff about the pressure to marry some girl he doesn’t know and didn’t pick. And that’s at least in part because he’s gay, whether he’s willing to admit that or not.**

**Sincerely, Harry Potter**

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**November 30, 1998  
Dear Harry Potter, **

**I wish to thank you for writing. I am always glad to hear news of my Draco. Please also be reassured I hold a most high opinion of you. You are a fine young man. Any mother would be pleased to hear you had developed a friendship with her child.**

**I will admit some surprise that your friendship with Draco has taken a turn for the romantic, but not because I thought him heterosexual. Draco’s father refused to see reality on this detail, but I have always looked at my son with open eyes.**

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**I do find it curious no one in the Slytherin dormitories has heard Draco talk in his sleep. I myself have heard him more than once. He did this more often as a boy, but I have even heard him speak this way more than once about you, though you should be warned it was never in complimentary tones.**

**But of course, you know better than I how thoroughly your faces have turned toward one another. I am not even slightly sad to learn of your heightened regard for him, and his for you. On the contrary, I welcome it.**

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**Likewise, I am dismayed to hear Draco has been speaking cruelly to you, and of the pure blooded young ladies his father would have me parade before him. When he comes home for Christmas he and I shall have much to discuss. Draco has apparently not become aware of all the many changes his father’s new status brings.**

**First and foremost, there shall be no “little blonde high born twits being snookered into taking the Malfoy name.” If Draco was somehow not aware of this important new expectation for his future, I worry about what else he has not realized.**

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**I do thank you for bringing all this to my attention, dear Harry. And I hope you will join Draco and me for a relaxed high tea on Boxing Day. Since the two of you have grown close, it would be my great pleasure to host you in our London home, where Draco and I will take the holiday this year.**

**I would also invite you to spend Christmas with us, but we will unfortunately be spending the 25th visiting Draco’s father, who is, as I am sure you are aware, permanently sequestered in the north.**

**Sincerely,  
Narcissa Black Malfoy**

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“I cannot fucking believe you wrote my mother!”

Draco had confronted Harry.

“Merlin, will you relax already? Your mum was really nice! She said she was glad I wrote!”

Draco was… upset.

“That is hardly the point, _Potter_!”

Harry, too, was… agitated.

“Oh yeah? Then what’s the point, _Draco_?”

They were standing off in the 8th year common room.

It was quickly filling with 8th years.

Quite a few of whom looked like they couldn’t decide whether this was the show of the century, or they really ought to GTFO before magic started to fly. Indiscriminately.

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“The _point_ is,” Draco ground out, “I’m not a fucking ponce!”

Harry deliberately put his hands on his hips and cocked them. “That’s not what your mum says.”

Draco looked ready to explode. “Mum doesn’t know everything! Mum is wrong!”

“Then why do you talk in your sleep about wanting me?” Harry demanded. He could hardly remember anymore that this was, in all honesty, a lie. The way Draco’s mum had reinforced it had affected Harry’s perception. 

“I don’t know!” Draco yelled. “Because I’d rather come inside your arse than my hand? I’m not gay, I’m an opportunist!”

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“You repeat that constantly,” Harry growled, “but you ‘doth protest too much!’ You don’t just like fucking me, you like to kiss. You like fucking face-to-face. You love sleeping next to me, touching me. You guide me by the small of my back when we walk together. You pat my arse in front of people. You insist on being exclusive!”

“Of course I do,” Draco sniffed. “Who wants to trouble with anti-STD spells all the time? It’s unsavoury. I’m too straight for fag diseases. I wouldn’t want Pomfrey to get the wrong idea.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay, Draco!”

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“Of course there is! I refuse to be… nothing but a faggot!”

“What are gay men, then?” Harry asked. His voice went lower and Draco relaxed his shoulders. The rest of the 8th years, however, took a few steps back. 

“_You people_ are nothing but trouble,” Draco said, pointing at Harry, warming to his subject. “You’re feminine, unnatural, you don’t have children! Men like you are… girly, simpering cowards!”

“Really, Draco? I would remind you, I’m the faggot that ended Voldemort.”

Draco blanched.

Some random 8th year called out from the back of the crowd. “Forget that, did you Malfoy?”

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Draco, deathly pale, nonetheless pulled himself up tall. “We’re through!” he declared, imperious. “I can’t believe you would treat me so badly.”

Harry looked murderous. “After the horrible things you’ve done to me? Where the fuck have you been for the entirety of this relationship?”

“Whatever, Potter,” Draco said, clearly feigning calm. “Have fun jerking off without the benefit of my big dick pounding away at your hole. I’ll see you around.”

“You’ll see me in a fortnight, you mean. If you think I’m disappointing your mother and skipping Boxing Day tea, you are out of your tiny little mind.”

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McGonagall had tried to forbid eighth years from socializing in House common rooms. This, however, had proven impossible to enforce. If an eighth year “former” Hufflepuff was dating a seventh year current Hufflepuff, could staff really stop them cuddling on a Hufflepuff couch? Thus, eighth years had ignored this ruling from day one, and it was very easy for Harry and Draco to avoid one another. 

And thank Merlin for that, too, because with this being NEWT year, no one had time for all the detentions that would have arisen from them attempting to share the eighth year common room.

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**Dearest Mother,  
I understand why you invited Harry to Boxing Day tea, but my life would be so much easier if only you had asked me, first. Harry and I were never serious, no matter what he says or thinks. I am your obedient son. I will happily marry whatever suitable young pureblood girl you think best for our family’s future. I have always known my duty in this, and look forward to fathering many beautiful children and raising them to the greatness of the Malfoy name. Or, at least, raising them to reinstate the greatness of the Malfoy name.**

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**I allowed Harry to speak publicly of our liaison, for I assumed a dalliance with him could only raise our social capital. I assure you, I am no homosexual, though Harry is easy on the eyes. He has other positive attributes, obviously. He is kind, intelligent, and adventurous. His bravery, plainly, is world-renowned.**

**With all these advantages, I assumed you would not object to my dalliance. But I never thought you would mistake an opportunistic, Slytherin move for some sort of… permanent lifestyle announcement. **

**We both know faggots are, frankly, gross, feminine cowards. I, of course, am none of those.**

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**I know it puts you in an awkward position, but please withdraw his invitation. Perhaps you have mentioned it to friends, perhaps they are impressed. If you cannot withdraw it, I should stay upstairs. **

**Harry and I no longer get along. Proximity is unpleasant. It leads to raised voices, and — as uncouth as he is — probably hexes. As admired as he is, he has no intrinsic understanding of Pureblood customs, manners and traditions.**

**To be blunt, this won’t be easy. I know it. But you can’t make me do this, Mummy. I’ll cry if you make me.**

**Love, your baby**

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Dear Mrs Malfoy,

Draco probably told you, but he left me. He was angry I wrote you, so maybe I shouldn’t, but I meant it when I said I feel connected to you not because of Draco, but because you saved my life. Except, I know you saved my life to save Draco’s, so maybe I’m confused?

Anyway, if it’s weird to see me Boxing Day I understand. But I have a house-elf, so maybe you could come for dinner or tea or something? Christmas Eve is better for me. You can leave Draco home if that helps.

Sincerely,  
Harry

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**Mummy,  
I know you. You haven’t written because you hate to say no to me but on this thing you don’t want to say yes. Let me remind you why I am right. **

**Mummy, just think how battered we are likely to feel after spending Christmas Day traveling to and then from Azkaban. Think how we are likely to have been treated. I know I am not going to want to entertain anyone, but I know you, and tea will not be enough. You will insist Harry is too thin and tell him he must stay for dinner as well.**

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**I fear you will exhaust yourself preparing something wonderful for the Precious Saviour’s dinner. But I know him, Mummy. He has terrible manners and plebeian taste. He wants nothing more than Shepherd’s Pie and treacle tart because he is the epitome of a middle-class half-blood raised by muggles. I cannot understand why you have yet to withdraw your invitation. **

**If you have somehow convinced yourself I secretly long for him, or some other such foolishness, know I most certainly do not! He was a tempting diversion with a pretty face and an adventurous spirit, nothing more. **

**Love, your baby dragon**

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**  
My dear, precious Draco,**

**Apparently, I need to be fully, transparently clear that I will not tolerate your insults to gay men. My favourite cousin, Sirius Black, was homosexual. He was brave to the point of being occasionally foolhardy, but no one could ever have fairly called him cowardly. **

**As a very feminine woman, I find the use of that term equated to an insult to be distressing. **

**I will not even dignify the use of the insult “gross” by explaining why it will never again be used to describe any human being to me. I assume that is self-evident.**

****  
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**  
If you cannot bear to share a simple hour of tea and scones with your ex-lover I will take Christmas Eve tea at Harry’s home, instead. I saved his life. He had already saved yours. This tea will happen.**

**Your father is no longer in charge of your decisions, Draco. No matter whom you eventually choose to marry, I will give my blessing as long as he or she is kind, smart, and loves you as you deserve to be loved: fully and enthusiastically. **

**To be clear, you are still much too young to get married. **

**With motherly love,  
** Mummy  


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**   
**  
Dear Harry,  
How lovely that you extend to me an invitation into your home. I accept with gratitude. I shall see you Christmas Eve, 3pm. Please respond with Floo coordinates.  
Sincerely, Narcissa

**Dear Draco,  
** I will take tea with Harry at his home, and you shall stay at the Manor, alone, just as you suggested.  
He is the hero who saved us from the Dark. You should do well to reflect upon that.  
Mummy 

**** <strike>Harry,</strike>  
Fuck you, arsehole, you’ve made mumm furious at me. Bet thats just what you wanted. I hate loathe fuck miss want you so much and  


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Draco could hardly believe the stupid, annoying mess he now found himself living in. His mum was somehow, for some stupid reason, incredibly angry at him. She was being ridiculous, and stupid, but it still <strike>hurt</strike> bothered him a little. He had to spend hols with her, after all.

Stupid Harry wasn’t sucking Draco’s damn cock. Or spreading his stupid legs. Or talking to him. 

Also, thanks to fucking, stupid Harry, the whole stupid school thought Draco was a fudge-packing, shirt-lifting, mincing, simpering poof. Which he absolutely was not, that would be disgusting. 

And he wasn’t ready for his exams.

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Harry was a mess, trying to deal with a shit situation. He told himself he only missed Draco’s lovely cock and short refractory period, but in his heart and guts, he knew it was more.

Harry missed Draco’s attentiveness, his touch in the hallways, the flattery of his attraction and the snarky little jokes he told in bed. Harry missed having someone next to him at night and having someone who felt “his.”

Harry missed Draco’s intelligence, beauty, physical grace and that secret little smile he hid from everyone but Harry.

Much, much worse, Harry wasn’t ready for his exams.

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Every time Draco reread them, Mother’s letters... _unsettled_.

Draco’d assumed that, in treating Harry like a trophy, he could have everything. He’d _certainly_ not wanted to tell Mother about their dalliance, but once Harry had, Draco thought he’d described well to her the tightrope he’d intended to walk. 

Draco’d wanted to have fun (to finally be _free_), and nonetheless enhance his marred reputation. 

There was only one boy Draco could fuck and _enhance_ his reputation, but that’s why he’d been willing to fuck that particular boy. If any other boy had offered, Draco would have spat in his face. _Obviously_.

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Harry’d known Draco saw him as something of a trophy. He’d certainly had trouble recognizing that Harry was a real person, with needs that manifested both outside the bedroom _and_ off the front page.

Of course, Harry hadn’t been an ideal boyfriend, either. He’d begun this mess by hideously, repeatedly, violating Draco’s privacy. He’d spun that elaborate sleep-talk lie. He’d written Draco’s Mum when he should’ve had a hard talk with Draco about uncomfortable things.

Probably worse, he’d attempted to rope Draco’s mother into that sleep-talk lie. 

Ashamed of himself, Harry sank deeper into his seat on the Hogwarts Express.

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Mother did not meet the train, but it was hardly difficult to find the hired driver and pass over his luggage. He was almost ostentatious in his refusal to look anywhere near Potter. He left King’s Cross with his head literally held high.

The car had a nice selection of drinks and music. Sitting alone in the back with no expectations placed upon him should have been a relief, but Draco’s brain was a muddled mess of thoughts he did not want to think, options he did not want to consider, and memories he rather wished he did not have.

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Mother was in the conservatory when Draco arrived home. She accepted his excuses (“so tired,” “exams”) without difficulty. Draco escaped to his room.

He unpacked his own little bag, not wanting a house-elf even for a few moments. He thought to change into more comfortable clothing, but once nude he stopped, paused, then ran himself a scalding bath.

Sinking into the bubbles, Draco sighed and ducked his head down, smoothed out the excess water, relaxed his spine and closed his eyes.

Of course, this meant his brain immediately supplied a million memories of Potter. Naked. Eager. Happy. 

Bloody fucking hell.

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Draco woke to a symphony he recognized. Startled, he splashed as he fumbled, rushing from the bathtub. Mother had probably already been in here, dammit. He was too fucking old to have his Mummy see him nude, let alone _attend his bath_. He threw on his fluffiest dressing gown and breathed in, then out.

Hair still dripping, Draco entered his bedroom and watched Mother turn slowly toward him, catch his eye, give one nod. 

“Rested?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied. He knew better than to ask for privacy. He sat at his desk. She sat in his armchair.

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“I must apologize,” she finally said. “I should have told you years ago you talk in your sleep.”

Draco hoped his startlement didn’t show. “You… knew? About that?”

“Of course, darling,” his mother said, maddeningly nonchalant. “I am your mother. I rocked you to sleep, then I checked on you, then I set spells to watch over you.” She sipped at tea he hadn’t noticed. 

He had a teacup. He sipped from it and tried to think of something intelligent to say.

She smiled gently. “I think the first sleeptalk I heard from you was lyrics to your favourite lullaby.”

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“I do not—” Draco stopped himself. He was angry, but probably shouldn’t be. He certainly didn’t want her to know, even if his indignation _was_ justified.

“Why is this all news to me?” he said instead, feigning calm. Do you not think you should have told me before I went off to _boarding school_?”

“Why embarrass or upset you when I could just contain it magically?” Mother replied. “I did not expect you to break the charm yourself. You must have something you want to tell Harry very badly. I wonder what it is?”

Draco wanted to swallow his tongue.

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Watching Mother Floo to Harry’s, without him, to have fucking _tea_, would be… difficult. But Draco had no interest in Mother’s barbed remarks on the subject, so after breakfast, he avoided her.

“There you are!” she called up, hours later. “I was not aware you still enjoyed your treehouse, darling. Dybbin nearly ironed his ears when he could not tell me your location.”

Draco climbed down. “I apologize, Mother,” he said, without elaborating. “I trust tea was pleasant?”

“It was,” she agreed, “but I fear I left my favourite biscuit platter behind. I need you to fetch it for me.”

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Draco did not hide his glare. How transparent could Mother be? But, he was not in the habit of completely disobeying direct orders from his parents. So, biting back his sigh, he nodded.

Mother flitted away, apparently willing to ignore his emotions as long as he complied. “Tomorrow, darling,” she called as she wandered off. “I will not attend dinner tonight. Too much to do before we go to Azkaban tomorrow. Emotional preparation. I highly recommend it.” Then she was gone, and Draco braced himself to enter Harry’s personal space and reclaim his mother’s stupid platter. If it even existed.

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“Harry?” Draco called. This boy. How could he leave his Floo unlocked and unattended? Anyone could get in here and wreak havoc!

“Harry!” Draco stepped further into the space, wondering what to do, when an ancient house-elf appeared in the doorway and widened his eyes.

“Young Master Black?” he inquired. Draco realized he might have found an ally to get him in and out of here without having to talk to Harry at all.

“Yes,” Draco said. “Narcissa Black Malfoy is my mother. She left a biscuit platter here earlier today?”

“Yes!” the house-elf declared, almost joyous. “Kreacher will fetch!”

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Finally feeling more than equal to the occasion, Draco sat on Potter’s divan and waited for the house-elf’s return. A stack of magazines was fanned out prettily on the coffee table, so he picked one up at random and started reading about Quidditch teams in Australia.

He heard a noise at the doorway, and —expecting Kreacher— he turned toward it and smiled.

It was Harry.

Harry looked, gobsmacked, at Draco.

Draco put down the magazine and tried to think of something intelligent to say.

“You finally came,” Harry whispered, and then he was in Draco’s lap, and they were kissing.

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Draco hadn’t called here for this, but now Harry was in his arms, he found himself decidedly not equal to the task of pushing Harry away, letting Harry go, or even ending their snog.

Harry was as beautiful as Draco reluctantly recalled. He was as responsive, as eager, as good at kissing as he had been from the beginning. His ability to get Draco so hard he couldn’t think had only improved while they had been apart.

Draco was drowning.

“I want to fuck you,” he found himself saying, but he didn’t take it back.

It was true, after all.

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The sex was _glorious_.

Because neither of them were foolish enough to talk.

Well. They exchanged words. 

“So good!”

“Bed, now.”

“Behind you?”

“Kiss me?”

“Yes.”

“On top?”

But no one asked “what does this mean?”

There were sighs, there were smiles. 

But there was no talk of “boyfriends.”

No one was foolish enough to ask for more.

“I have to go.”

“I understand.”

“This felt… so good.”

“See you at school.”

“Of course. At Hogwarts.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Me, too.”

Harry’s Floo made a lonely, whooshing sound as Draco headed home.

He locked it and turned away.

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Draco’s Christmas was hideous.

Traveling to Azkaban was a long, tiring process. First, they Apparated to the Muggle airport at Wick, in Orkney, of all places. The wizard who met them sneered, but steered them to a restricted Floo, which brought them, “one at a time only, sir,” to the ruined chapel on Eynhallow. Mother arrived right behind him.

He found himself thinking, repeatedly, how glad he was that Mother and Harry had changed their plans and shared that blasted tea the day before Christmas, instead of the day after.

He hated feeling that gratitude.

But he felt it, nonetheless.

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From tiny, uninhabited Eynhallow, a grumpy subAuror pressed them, wandless no less, into a rickety boat. No one accompanied them. The boat itself was in charge. The magic that steered it was slow and erratic, making sudden turns in the water which slopped seawater over the sides.

Draco stared behind at brown, flat Eynhallow, until it vanished into the mist.

The sea air ate light. And sound. They rocked, he and Mother, alone in their thoughts, and the mist, and the twilight.

By the time they arrived at Azkaban, over two hours later, their robes and cloaks were soaking wet.

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Father wasn’t glad to see them. Father wasn’t happy about Christmas. Father was angry, ill, and working hard to keep himself from committing violence. His hair was clean, but his robes were dirty. His face was clean, but his gaze was hot.

Mother strove to calm him, but the magic did not allow them to touch. It was the only thing that would have helped. 

As soon as he could, Draco walked out of the visiting center and did not look behind himself — even to check on Mother. He had to get away. He had to breathe.

He wanted Harry.

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Seeing Father there. Incarcerated. The people’s enemy.

It changed something in Draco’s soul. But what?

He contemplated as the tiny boat steered them impassively away. 

He considered, silent, sharing nothing with Mother, as he followed her wet feet across the dead, brown grass and patchy snow; from the shore of Eynhallow to the ruined chapel, so far from where the boat landed.

He thought this over once his wand was back in his hand. 

He thought about this at Wick, at the Manor, as he and Mother ate. Even in his large, lonely bed.

He knew not.

He knew nothing.

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Draco slept, but Boxing Day dawn found him dressed, drinking tea, staring out into the brightening sky.

Sitting in a chair given him before he was born, Draco nonetheless floated through confusion.

Father had always insisted Draco become “a man.”

But what kind of man was Father?

Mother wanted him to kiss up to Harry Potter. What kind of man would that make him? Hell, what kind of son? What kind of person?

Harry wanted Draco. Draco knew he wanted Harry. But Harry was a sneak, a suckup, maybe a liar?

Noon found Draco in that same chair.

Nightfall, too.

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After many hours of thought, Draco had some clarity. Draco could see now; he wanted to move forward; take action.

Certainly, he could buckle down, and only study hard until N.E.W.T.s were over. But he didn’t want to. School was not merely for learning skills and achieving high marks. School was for networking. Making connections. Impressing the right people. Finding the right wife.

Or so he’d always been taught.

Draco no longer believed everything he had been taught, but these things… still rang true.

What he needed now, he decided, was a role model. But whom?

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The first Slytherins that came to mind were all useless. Father? A criminal; a lackey. Slughorn? A sycophant and coward. Snape? Miserable, hated, lonely. The Bloody Baron? Impulsive, a murderer, and misogynist. Merlin? Who honestly knew anything about the real Merlin anymore? He was far too shrouded in time and legend to be a suitable role model.

Draco sipped his tea, stared out his bedroom window, watched the snow swirl, and considered further.

Regulus Black was a man of action. The wrong ones, at first, and then…. Of course, he’d been murdered by Voldemort. But for doing the right thing.

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Thinking back further into honoured Slytherin dead, Draco soberly contemplated the possibility of modeling himself after his father’s father.

Draco’s Grandfather Abraxas had been a man of action, as well. His track record, though, was perhaps a bit more checkered than even that of Regulus. He’d reportedly managed to help depose a Minister solely for being Muggle-born. But he had also been a respected Potions Master and scholar. And Draco knew that designation was definitely true. The other thing was an old rumour. 

Could his grandfather be a good role model? Maybe he should speak to his Grandfather Abraxas’ portrait.

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Harry sat, quiet and lonely, in front of a coffee table full of international Quidditch magazines. Seeing Draco unexpectedly in this very room a few hours ago, then having glorious, delicious sex with Draco, being lovingly held and passionately kissed and reverently touched by Draco.

It had been… excruciating and perfect. 

Draco was somehow, crazily, both everything and nothing to Harry. Eviscerating and healing. Draco was the target, he was the arrow. He was even the crossbow.

Harry was overwhelmed. In over his head. Harry had no damn idea what to do.

He needed a Dad so desperately right now.

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Quite deliberately, Draco chose to wait until Mother was away, calling on friends. Then he dressed formally, conservatively, and went to speak with his Grandfather Abraxas’s largest portrait.

“Draco,” Grandfather said, fond. There was appraisal in his eyes, but the approval was clear in his voice.

Draco allowed his shoulders to release a bit of tension.

“I seek advice, Grandfather,” he said.

“Wanting to conquer the world, I bet,” Grandfather rumbled. “Handsome, intelligent grandson of mine.”

“No, Sir,” Draco admitted, and sitting in a large wingback chair, he had Dybbin bring tea. Slowly, seeking feedback throughout, he began to explain.

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Grandfather listened, asked questions, considered Draco’s answers. Thrice, he reminded Draco of relevant pieces of their family history. And through it all, he furrowed his brow.

Draco found himself leaning forward in his chair, eager for his Grandfather’s wisdom.

“I was a worldly man,” Grandfather eventually said. “But never did I see the likes of this _Voldemort_ to whom my son sold our name. And for what?” 

He frowned. 

“You are correct, grandson. This is not the generation for Malfoy conquest. Far from it. Instead, sadly, you must be the Malfoy who gives Britain a reason to forget your father.”

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“How shall I do that, Grandfather?” Draco asked.

“I have a few ideas,” Abraxas said slowly, “but I don’t wish to share them with you without first consulting someone else among the living.”

“Whom?” Draco said eagerly, not even pretending to keep cool. “Not my mother, I hope?”

“No,” Grandfather agreed. “Not Narcissa. But I think perhaps… her sister.”

“Bellatrix Black LeStrange is dead!” Draco exclaimed loudly, a bit horrified.

“_Andromeda_ Black Tonks is alive,” his grandfather said, still calm, and Draco stilled, surprised. 

“I had not considered Aunt Andromeda as a resource,” he admitted. “But the idea has merit….”

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“Your Aunt was Slytherin,” Grandfather began, ticking off points on his fingers.

“She is of the House of Black. From what you said, she is an acknowledged war heroine, as well as Mother to a martyred heroine. She is a close blood relative.” 

He paused. “She is not a Malfoy.”

“She and Mother are estranged,” Draco said, reluctant.

“Even better,” Abraxas said, leaning forward in his painted chair. “Reconcile them.”

Draco reclined in his own chair and considered everything Grandfather had said. 

“I agree, Sir,” he finally said. “Should I owl, or visit her home in person, hat in hand?”

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Draco planned his outfit and physical presentation with tremendous care.

If he did this well, the crucial conversation between he and Aunt Andromeda would happen before he opened his mouth.

His wealth had to look all-encompassing, yet completely unconscious. 

His health, on the other hand, his demeanor…. 

He needed to look slightly strained around the eyes. Slightly tired around the mouth. Slightly shaky around one hand.

He had to look — despite his unchanged finances — like the freaked-out post-war teenager with the thousand pound weight on each shoulder he usually felt himself to be.

It was despairingly easy to pull off.

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Draco waited until Mum was well into her daily walk in their gardens before he apparated to the Devon address he’d found in an ancient family address book.

The thing appeared to update with magic, but he wasn’t sure he could trust it, as it seemed to indicate his aunt had lived at the same address — deep in the rural countryside — since years before Draco was even born. Wouldn’t she have wanted a clean break after the war? Perhaps not. 

He squared his shoulders and stepped forward, then knocked on the door, hoping the face that answered would be familiar.

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Draco’s Aunt answered the door layered in defensive magic, and with one eyebrow rising as high as Draco had ever seen.

“Nephew?” She said, in the cut-glass tones of a royal. Or a Black.

“Aunt Andromeda,” he said, aiming for a tone equally formal and arch. “May I please come in?”

“Yes,” she said after hesitating briefly. Her voice sounded firm and clear, yet somehow nonetheless radiated distrust. “But you will be _quiet_, as baby Teddy is napping.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Draco agreed.

Soon he was at her kitchen table, drinking Oolong and repeating calculated phrases Grandfather had fed him.

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“So I feel certain you already see how it would be advantageous for all four of us,” Draco was saying, when his aunt frowned.

“Enough,” she said. How was she simultaneously annoyed and forgiving? “You want my help? My sympathy? Then I need honesty. Someone has filled you with Slytherin nonsense. Who thought they could manipulate me through you? Narcissa?”

“No, ma’am,” Draco said, heart sinking deep into his belly. No advantageous lie came to mind. “Grandfather Abraxas,” he admitted.

His Aunt laughed out loud. “Child,” she said, as Draco watched her shoulders loosen. “You’ve been royally set up.”

“Ma’am?!”

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“I’m glad your Grandfather sent you,” Aunt Andromeda assured him. “But you must be honest with me, or I won’t take you under my wing. And, my grass _is_ greener. I have a good deal more political capital than your mother right now, or your Grandfather’s portrait.”

Draco smiled to himself. Portraits rarely had anything of the sort, of course. But his aunt was right about Mother.

“What your Grandfather did that was sneaky was to give you those… lines. Because he was smart enough to know you wouldn’t be comfortable just opening up to me out of the blue.”

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Draco almost made a reflexive denial, but instead paused to consider what his aunt had said, and realized… she had a point. He’d been a bit terrified of this meeting. Family or not, he had never even met this woman before she opened her door to him some minutes ago. Layered in magic and damn near snarling.

And Grandfather had… well. He’d essentially given Draco some very clearly laid-out ideas to discuss. Already all… laid-out. As it were. And Draco had not much modified... or well, he’d not exactly reformulated... that is… he’d not spoken exclusively in his own words.

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“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, feeling like an idiot.

She patted his hand and smiled. “Let’s hear what you really have to say, child. You won’t scare me off. I’m family. I have to like you.” 

She winked, and Draco stopped, because who’d ever heard such nonsense? He’d been taught to _hate her_, blood connection be damned. How was he meant to respond to someone foolish enough to believe that? He cautiously rolled her words around in his mind, sipped tea, then looked at her again. 

Her eyes were twinkling.

She was… joking? She was joking!

Nervous and confused, he smiled.

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“I’m not what you expected, am I,” his aunt said, looking at him with a bit of concern.

“_No, ma’am_,” he said, his sincerity coming through (perhaps a bit too) loud and clear.

She sighed and sipped her own tea. “I’m sorry,” she said eventually. “I’m out of practice with Slytherin and House of Black… methods. Nonetheless, I am your aunt, I am your ally, and I want to hear everything.”

She looked at him, and he felt his tongue curl up and shrivel in his mouth. He’d not a single idea of where to begin.

Apparently, she could tell.

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“I’ll summarize,” she said, and gave him a look that… sought permission? He nodded.

“You’ve been through a horrible experience for which you were wholly unprepared. Your mother is at sea in a post-war world. Your father is not only not a source of guidance, your association with him damages your reputation. You need counsel you trust. Not only to put you first, but to know what direction in which to point you. For career, life-planning, politics, reputation, even a suitable match. Is this a good beginning?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he agreed. Then, to his utter horror, he began to weep.

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By the time Draco had cried himself out, he was cuddled into his aunt’s arms on a squashy brown sofa in a warm, shabby room he suspected only family were permitted to see. He blew his nose and apologized, yet again, over the objections of his aunt, who wasn’t anywhere near as alarmed or thrown as he had expected. He’d had an outburst! A meltdown! And she… held him?

“You sweet child,” she said. “I’m here. Tell me, nephew, Draco. Why did you need to cry? What is overwhelming you so?”

“_Harry_,” he confessed, and hung his head in shame.

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Aunt Andromeda might claim distance from her Slytherin roots, but when Draco finally looked up, he was impressed by her perfect poker face. Surely she was surprised to hear Teddy’s godfather was the reason for Draco’s deluge of tears? But she looked so calm, patiently awaiting Draco’s explanation.

Draco swallowed, and tried to decide whether or not to confess his shame. There was probably no one safer, he realized. After all, she was his blood, but she loved Harry. She was probably predisposed to view them _both_ in the most favourable light.

Taking a deep breath, Draco prepared to speak.

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Aunt Andromeda nodded, and words fell from his mouth.

Draco admitted his fears. His disgust. His loss of place in the world. His ignorance in how to find or make a new one but for the surety that it required obtaining the perfect wife.

He explained how Mum pushed him at Harry, touched on his confusion regarding all the sleep-talk, described their miserable trip to Azkaban. 

Finally, Draco confessed to the loveless sex, the crushing lust. Admitted an all-encompassing desire that filled him with terror when he was away from Harry and made him cruel when they were near others.

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Exhausted from the torrent of emotional confession, Draco slumped against the back of the couch.

“I’m sorry,” he said, embarrassed all over again. He couldn’t look her in the eye. “I shouldn’t have burdened you with all of that… emotional frivolity.”

“On the contrary,” his aunt declared firmly. “You should have, and I am glad you did. And hear this: emotions are not frivolous.” 

She looked at her watch, then stood up and held out a hand to him. “Come, child, Teddy will be awake any moment. You should meet him. Let’s share a pot of tea while we wait.”

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Following his aunt as she led him back toward her kitchen, Draco silently marveled. This aunt of his was quite unlike everyone else. She was utterly no nonsense, honest, firm and strong, but at the same time she was both loving and generous. She rewarded honesty and returned it. Yet, one still got the sense that she could not easily be fooled.

She was almost like McGonagall, if Draco thought a Gryffindor could be trusted to treat him — or any Slytherin student — with fairness. He almost giggled. Then he stopped. Dumbledore had been biased beyond belief, but had McGonagall? Truthfully?

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Draco soon forgot to worry about anything besides Teddy, as the baby woke while Aunt Andromeda was pouring tea. They went into the baby’s room, and Draco was shocked by the clench in his heart when the sleepy, tear-faced boy _waved_ at him from where he stood in his crib.

“Would you like to hold him?” Draco’s aunt asked, and, slowly, uncertainly, Draco approached the child. Little Teddy looked up at Draco, smiling wetly around a bright blue dummy. Draco felt his heart melt, soften, and open. He pulled the child up into his arms and felt his heartrate slow.

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“He just learned how to do that,” Aunt Andromeda said proudly as Draco stood in Teddy’s nursery, sure in his hold on the baby, but unsure what else he was meant to do now.

“What, wave?” Draco asked.

“No, pull himself up to stand. He can do it when he has something to hold onto,” Aunt Andromeda explained. “He’s been waving for weeks now.”

“I don’t know much about babies,” Draco admitted as little Teddy started to pull on Draco’s right ear. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” his aunt said, smiling kindly. “Only child. You don’t even have little cousins.”

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“No,” Draco said, grateful when Aunt Andromeda had him follow her back into the room with the squashy brown sofa. At her direction he put Teddy on the floor, and sat next to him.

“Dad was an only child,” Draco said. 

“Malfoy tradition,” his aunt agreed. 

“And on Mum’s side, well, I guess it was just me and…” Draco paused, unsure how to refer to his dead cousin in front of her mother.

“Dora,” she said, waving his fear away. “We can talk about her. I want to talk about her. Nothing’s quite so terrible as thinking she’s been forgotten.”

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“I never met her,” Draco admitted. He felt his cheeks burn.

“She’d have loved you,” Aunt Andromeda said. She looked a little sad, and a little happy. Draco couldn’t quite understand.

“Oh?” he said, feeling ridiculous and wrong footed, but wanting so badly to be polite.

“She loved almost everyone,” Andromeda said, and winked at him. “She was rather the perfect Hufflepuff.”

Draco nodded again. The baby chewed on a stuffed rabbit and giggled.

“She’d have been so excited that you were seeing Harry, too.”

“Really?” Draco squeaked, and cursed the break in his voice for giving away his shock.

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“She was a real fool for a star-crossed romance, my Dora. I guess that’s how she ended up with Teddy’s sweet father.”

Andromeda’s smile suddenly shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. For one heartbreaking moment her face was wracked with pain. Her shoulders bent, and Draco saw the tears that threatened to fall. 

Then she drew herself together like the stoic, unflappable, chin-up Englishwoman she and Draco’s mother had been raised to be, and she stood. “I’ll just go make us a pot of tea while you keep an eye on little Teddy,” she said, and left the room abruptly.

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Draco had felt that urgency, to keep another from seeing one cry. So he stayed in the shabby brown room with Teddy and waited. It was easy, if rather dull. The baby liked throwing his toy, so Draco just… summoned it back.

Over and over they played this “game” with Teddy’s gummy, damp stuffed rabbit. Dozens of times Teddy chewed it, threw it, then giggled as Draco floated it back to him through the air.

Eventually, however, the baby began to whine. The floating rabbit was no longer sufficient.

Draco stared at the open door. Dare he disturb his aunt?

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Draco plucked Teddy up off his colorful blanket on the floor. He quickly found new ways to temporarily soothe him, first back pats, then jiggling. All as he paced, back and forth.

He hadn’t noted the time when his aunt had left the room, so he wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone, but his guess would be a full thirty minutes already, and that was surely enough time for having a good cry and cleaning your face after? So he very much wanted to hand the baby back, but would he make her angry if he sought her out?

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What if he found her still red-faced, or worse, _still crying_? What if he so embarrassed her, she tossed him out? Told him not to return? She’d seemed awfully accepting, earlier, he thought; _and she loves muggles and her son-in-law was a werewolf and her grandson is an orphan she can’t possibly reject me, can she_?

But logic could only hold out against insecurity for so long, and Draco found himself paralyzed, temporarily locked into a room by his fear of somehow accidentally destroying this new, valuable, familial connection.

He could not risk losing her.

Holding the baby, he paced.

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Draco was still wondering what to do, and Teddy’s misery was starting to feel permanent, when Draco heard the Floo activate in a nearby room. He stilled like a rabbit under a kestrel. Who could it be? Might they be dangerous? Should he hide? Call out a friendly greeting? Draw his wand?

Where the hell was Aunt Andromeda?

“Andi?” Draco heard someone call, and his heart fell six storeys into his shoes. _That was Harry’s voice._

Draco turned toward the doorway, faked a smile, and tried to pretend he was calm — as though the thundering of his heart was normal.

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Harry had never had a poker face. Draco had spent most of their interactions knowing just what Harry was feeling. (Whether or not he understood _why_.)

Harry entered the room, saw Draco holding Teddy, and Draco watched — fascinated, horrified and amazed — as a cascade of emotions played over Harry’s handsome face.

First, Harry looked surprised. Then he looked, honestly, pretty thrilled. Then he was immediately confused. He took a step toward them, then stopped, and that’s when his face began to show anger.

“Be careful,” Draco snarked, unable to stop himself, “or one of those foolish expressions will become permanent.” 

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Harry stared.

Draco took take pity on him. Jiggling and resettling the baby, who was (annoyingly) reaching for Harry (at least he’d stopped fussing), Draco drew himself tall. He reached deep into his past, seeking that once-permanent feeling of superiority he’d held so dear — before the war came and destroyed damn-near everything Draco valued and understood.

“I assume you are wondering why I am here,” Draco began.

Harry nodded, looking dumb with surprise; confusion.

“I came to talk with Aunt Andromeda,” Draco said. “I wanted advice.”

“About… me?” Harry asked. The hope on his face made Draco’s throat dry up.

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Instead of objecting, even lying, Draco silenced the denial that came so automatically to mind.

He felt Teddy reach for Harry. He recalled the shabby brown room in which they stood, set aside for family to be comfortable. So this baby could relax in his own home: not constantly scolded about taking care with expensive things. 

He thought about his aunt’s kindness with him. Her no-nonsense attitude. Her willingness to take him on, with all his problems and fears and needs. Her truth-telling. Her capacity to be vulnerable.

He thought about all that, before he spoke. “Among other things, yes.”

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Draco couldn’t take Teddy’s sadness anymore. He shoved the baby at Harry, who accepted with visible surprise.

Draco picked the damp rabbit up off the floor, cleaned it briskly with his wand and handed it to Teddy, who immediately shoved it back into his mouth.

“So,” Harry said, adjusting little Teddy more comfortably on his hip, “I see you and Teddy have made friends?”

Draco smiled despite himself. “He’s pretty brilliant,” he admitted. “I didn’t even know I liked babies.”

“Teddy’s not just any baby!” Harry said, tickling Teddy, who laughed uproariously and threw his rabbit again.

“No,” Draco agreed.

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“So, er,” Harry scratched his head.

Draco watched warily, refusing to find Harry adorable.

“You talked to Andromeda about me?”

“Among other things,” Draco repeated, uncomfortable. He released a breath, but slowly. He didn’t want Harry figuring out how nervous and off-balance he felt.

“Where is she, then?”

“She, uh, asked me to watch Teddy while she made tea.”

“So she’s in the kitchen.” Harry said, smiling. “Let’s go have tea with her.”

“No!” Draco said, grabbing at Harry’s sleeve. “She wasn’t, I mean, Dora came up, and she got a little upset. I think she wants to be alone.”

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“You upset Andromeda?” Harry no longer looked _remotely_ adorable.

Defensive, Draco stood taller. “We were talking about family. Her daughter came up in conversation, and Aunt Andromeda got sad. That is not my fault.”

“You brought up _Tonks_?” Harry demanded, clearly unconvinced of Draco’s innocence.

Draco felt even more defensive. He had to force himself not to release all his pent-up, jangled feelings at Harry. Still, his voice rose as he responded. “Why are you so angry at me? She is my aunt! She’s been really nice! She trusted me with the baby! _And she wanted to talk about Dora_!”

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Harry was gearing up for a fight; Draco winding up right along with him, when Andromeda swept in, effortlessly redirecting everyone’s attention. Draco noticed immediately — if his aunt had cried — there was no visible evidence. She’d been gone ages, though, so he thought she must have.

“Harry dear, you’re here. Lovely.” 

She smiled warmly at all three of them. Draco watched Harry resettle Teddy. Teddy dropped his rabbit and put his head on Harry’s shoulder.

“I made tea, and we have nibbles. Follow me into the kitchen please, all of you.”

Draco grabbed the stuffed rabbit yet again, and followed.

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Draco worried he and Harry would fight, either after they left the house or — far worse — _in front of Aunt Andromeda_. But he wasn’t the only one working to keep the peace. He and Harry, he realized as took another fig, must have been sparring audibly. He breathed deeply and tried not to blush.

They all kept the conversation pretty light for a while: the weather, the baby, the most pleasant of recent newspaper headlines. 

Draco felt himself relaxing, comforted. They were going to have a serious conversation, he knew they were; but it was good to do this, first.

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Eventually Andromeda picked up Teddy and jiggled the restless baby in her arms as he squirmed and pulled at her ear. “You boys need to talk, and Teddy is tired of sitting at the table. Shall we give you some privacy?”

Draco swallowed and looked at Harry. Harry looked uncomfortable. No one spoke, and Draco felt his shoulders creeping toward his ears. Someone needed to break the silence. Could Draco do it? He shouldn’t have to, surely? Harry was the heroic one, the brave one.

Still, no one spoke.

Draco cleared his throat, and everyone turned to look at him.

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“Please,” Draco murmured. Once they were staring, speaking felt easier than remaining silent. 

“We should take a walk,” Harry suggested.

Draco cocked his head. “Yes,” he agreed. “I’ve imposed enough today.”

“It’s a lovely day, if nippy,” Aunt Andromeda agreed. “Button your coats, layer on a warming charm… you’ll be fine. Come back if you need anything.” She bent to pull Teddy from his chair. Then she straightened her spine and gave Draco a piercing look. “I am glad you had the courage to break the ice between us today,” she said. “Come for tea tomorrow?”

“Certainly,” Draco agreed, surprised.

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“We have a problem,” Draco said as they stepped away from the house. He was surprised by his own audacity, but Aunt Andromeda had broken open some small, scared thing inside him and somehow filled it with courage and reassurance. He reckoned he should use that, before it withered away in the cold, winter wind.

“We’re desperately attracted to one another, but we’re also horrible to one another. Horrible _for_ one another. Not to mention, I must marry a woman soon; sire an heir.”

“I thought your Mum said you don’t have to?”

“Mum and I disagree,” Draco replied, stiffly.

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“Okay,” Harry said politely enough. Draco could still hear the skepticism, but it was subtle enough to ignore. “Are you saying we should stop fucking? Break up? Because, I gotta say, we’re amazing at fucking, and _really_ bad at leaving each other alone.”

Draco sighed. “You have a point.” He tried to think of how else to respond, but Harry made a small noise, as though he wanted to continue talking, so Draco waited.

“There’s a park bench,” Harry said. “Shall we?”

They walked in silence to the bench, sat down, and did not turn to look at one another.

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“I think... I love you,” Harry said quietly, and Draco gasped.

“Harry,” he eventually managed, helpless and shocked. “That’s… fucked up. I have treated you like shit. Hell, you have treated _me_ really horribly, too. We act like we hardly care. How could this be love?”

Harry wrung his hands. “I… know,” he finally said. “I’ve tried so hard to let go of this, Draco. It’s so… unhealthy.”

“Granger,” Draco said, flat and annoyed.

“Yes, that’s her word, Draco, but she was right and you know it. You just said the same thing yourself in different words!”

“Yeah,” Draco sighed.

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“We constantly conflict, Harry. How could this be love?”

“‘Cept while we fuck,” Harry muttered.

Draco didn’t bother responding.

Harry twisted his hands together briefly, then dropped them in his lap. “Fine. I’ve got no idea. I just know what I feel.”

“Have you been in love before?”

“No. Have you?”

“No.”

They sat silently for a heavy moment. “What makes you call this love?”

“I think about you constantly,” Harry started. “Your hands, cock, mouth. I dream about sex with you. I just… want you. Nonstop.”

“I think that’s obsession,” Draco said. He heard the misery in his voice.

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Harry bristled. “You think I’m obsessed with you?”

“I think we’re obsessed with each other. And the sex.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “The sex is amazing.”

“The sex is _great_,” Draco agreed, reluctant but honest.

“There’s our conflict,” Harry suggested.

. . . . . 

“I think I shouldn’t go back to Hogwarts,” Draco eventually tried.

“The fuck?” Harry yelled, jumping up. “You’d let this ruin your education?”

Draco stood slowly, not wanting to upset Harry, whose magic was always powerful, and sometimes volatile. “I’ll study at home, Harry. Correspondence courses. Plenty of Slytherins are doing those. I’ll take my NEWTS at Hogwarts, like everyone else.”

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“I would,” Harry said, swallowing sadness, “really miss you. If you did that.”

“I’m going to miss the sex, too,” Draco said, looking down at their feet. “But we both have to get over this. Being at school together is making everything worse, not better.”

Harry inhaled, and Draco waited for him to argue with Draco’s assumption that Harry would miss him solely for sex. But Harry didn’t speak, so Draco stayed silent.

“This isn’t normal,” Draco finally tried.

“Being gay, you mean?” Harry said, and there was the bite, the vinegar.

“I meant fucking someone we hate,” Draco said.

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Deflating, Harry sat. Draco sat gingerly next to him and waited for the anger, the accusations. They didn’t come.

Finally, Harry spoke. The dejection in his voice almost made Draco buckle. “You hate me?” he asked.

“Is that the wrong word?” Draco tried. “I hate that I have sex with another _bloke_. I hate that you’re famous, beloved and heroic, while I’m despised. I hate wanting you the way I _should_ feel about pretty girls. I hate that being with you feels simultaneously almost normal, while also completely wrong. In every way. I hate feeling I’m doing everything completely wrong.”

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“I can’t believe I wanted you to be honest,” Harry choked out. He sounded on the verge of tears. “Does Andromeda think this is a good idea? You leaving school?”

“Oh,” Draco said, surprised. “I’ve no idea. I’ve not discussed it with her.”

“Could you?” Harry said, and he sounded hopeful. “I think you should. You seeking her out is…” Draco could almost hear Harry changing his unspoken sentence. Draco didn’t know what Harry’d started to say, but he probably would’ve hated it. He tried not to burn with curiosity.

“I think it was a brilliant idea,” Harry finally tried.

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“Er,” Draco said, surprised to get such a nice compliment, and glad Harry thought it had been a good idea. “I’m glad. Aunt Andromeda is really smart, and I was glad to get her perspective. I’m very glad to know she wants to look out for me. Of course I can ask her about this idea. I think it’s a good one, though.” Draco still couldn’t look up from his shoes. “I haven’t felt normal in so long. Everything made sense, once. But that was a very long time ago.”

“Before the war,” Harry said, and Draco had to agree.

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Draco knew he’d essentially promised to speak with Andromeda, but instead of bothering her, he returned home, hoping to discuss everything with Grandfather’s portrait.

Grandfather Abraxas, though, was asleep. Draco sighed. He’d exhausted his Grandfather’s portrait. The image would likely sleep for a week; maybe more. Draco couldn’t postpone this decision anywhere near that long. If he was to leave Hogwarts and enroll in correspondence courses he needed to do it within two, three days. _Especially_ if he was to employ a worthy tutor in any of the more obscure classes he wanted to continue with, like Runes and Alchemy.

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“Draco?”

Draco turned to see Mother in the doorway, superficially composed, but touching the string of freshwater pearls at her throat, a unique nervous tell Draco had discerned during the war. 

“Mother,” he said, turning from the sleeping image. “I visited your sister Andromeda today,” he continued, recalling Grandfather’s advice to try to repair the rift between the sisters. 

Mother was unable to prevent a visible reaction that, however brief, allowed Draco to witness her shock. It was gone, though, in a millisecond, replaced by Narcissa’s almost perfect poker face. It was, Draco realized, nearly as complete as Aunt Andromeda’s.

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“She was helpful,” Draco said, rushing headlong into honesty. After all, he decided, if he could not be honest with his own mother, what was the point?

“I spent Boxing Day considering the past few years. I needed another perspective. I started with Grandfather Abraxas’s portrait, but he suggested I check his opinions and suggestions against those of your sister, as she has a unique position among Blacks and Slytherins in this post war world.”

“Decorated war heroine,” Mother said, nodding, and Draco nodded back, hoping he wasn’t hurting his mother’s feelings but needing to continue, even if he was.

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“Aunt Andromeda invited me to return tomorrow. I think you should come, too,” Draco said recklessly.

“Was I… invited?” his mother said, delicate and quiet.

“Well, no,” Draco admitted. “But I could owl to ask if you may accompany me. Grandfather Abraxas wanted me to help you reconnect.”

“Did he, now,” Mother said, still using that uniquely delicate tone that Draco didn’t quite know how to interpret.

“With Father… away,” Draco said carefully, “perhaps you would like to have your remaining sister back in your life?”

“I do get lonely sometimes, with you off at Hogwarts,” Mother mused. Draco grimaced.

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Aunt Andromeda agreed, so Draco and Mother flooed over precisely at 3:30.

It was curious to see Mother taking tea with her suddenly un-estranged sister. She was a calculated balance of contemplative and warm, grateful and tremulous, nostalgic and aloof.

Aunt Andromeda, for her part, seemed perfectly comfortable to have her last remaining sister show up for tea on one day’s notice. But she’d probably realized this would happen when she’d allowed Draco into her home, so Draco thought that explained things. 

Or it might be his Aunt’s superior inscrutability, he thought, watching them, and sipped his perfect tea.

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“I am so glad we are all together,” Draco said as Andromeda took the second-to-last watercress sandwich. “I had a thought I wanted to check with both of you. An option for my future that I think could possibly be a very wise choice.”

They nodded at him, so Draco put his shoulders back and spoke to the air between them. “I thought I should switch over to taking correspondence classes, and not return to Hogwarts.”

“What?” Mother demanded, unusually loud.

“I’m not surprised,” Andromeda said at the same time, and Draco watched in discomfort as things devolved from there.

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“Andromeda, how could you encourage this?” Mother said. She rose. “I shall return momentarily,” she said, clearly miserable; apparently about to crumble. She vanished in the direction of the loo.

Draco looked at his aunt, bewildered. “How odd,” he admitted. “She was just saying how much she misses me during Hogwarts.”

“She is surprised,” Aunt Andromeda said. 

“And you are not,” Draco suddenly recalled.

“No,” she agreed. “Not after everything you said yesterday: how stressful you find being near Harry, all the pressure you feel about your Hogwarts experience.”

“So what do you think?” he asked, eager for her opinion.

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“This might well be an intelligent choice,” Andromeda began.

“Look who I found!” Mother interrupted, appearing in the doorway with Harry, who looked a bit stunned.

Draco blanched. Harry was the last person he needed right now: a boy both volatile and deeply biased. But expressing those concerns would not help. 

“Harry,” he tried, “I’m asking my aunt’s opinion, just as you requested.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, looking fragile. Narcissa still gripped his upper arm. “Thank you.”

“Lapsang souchong?” Aunt Andromeda offered. Harry moved to sit. 

Draco watched Mother unashamedly maneuver Harry toward Draco, and he bit back his frustrated sigh.

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“Blackberry crumble.” Andromeda said after a few awkward moments. She raised her wand and they all watched as the pudding slowly sailed into the room, a large silver spoon alongside. They each took a small serving, took a bite. Finally, though, Draco had waited long enough.

“So,” he said. “You were saying, Aunt Andromeda?”

Draco’s aunt straightened her very straight spine, looked her sister in the eye, and started again. “Yes, Draco, I was saying changing to correspondence learning might be wise.”

Draco was looking at his aunt, but he nonetheless saw Harry deflate on the sofa next to him.

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Draco paid little attention to the angry words Mother sprayed at Aunt Andromeda. Instead, he looked at Harry, who looked ready to fall apart. Draco felt a clench in his guts.

It was guilt, he realized with dismay. He felt responsible for Harry’s sadness.

Draco considered that. Could he fix Harry’s unhappiness? By giving him something that didn’t exist? Besides, he was unhappy too. That, though, he could do something about.

“I am sorry,” he finally said, wondering if he would even be heard over the increasing volume of his mother’s fury.

“I hate that you want this,” Harry said.

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“As a matter of fact,” Aunt Andromeda’s crisp voice suddenly cut through the cacophony. “He should also move in with me.”

“What?” Mother roared, and Draco was done.

“Thank you, Aunt,” he said. “It would be a pleasure and an honor. I promise to study hard and bring praise to both my houses. I shall return to the Manor and pack.”

Draco turned to Harry. “I shall need to pack at Hogwarts as well. Perhaps I will see you before I withdraw from classes and leave campus.”

Then Draco turned to the floo, leaving behind a crumbling detente between sisters.

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The floo flared and then calmed, leaving Harry alone with Andromeda and Draco’s mother. He’d no idea what to say. Frankly, he was so stunned, he barely knew what he felt.

No, that wasn’t true, he realized. He knew exactly how he felt. _Sad_. He was suddenly, immeasurably sad. Draco insisted Harry couldn’t be in love with him. Maybe Draco was right about that, but whatever this feeling technically was, Draco had ripped it and stomped on it and…

Andromeda and her sister were fighting. Harry felt like sobbing out loud and begging Andromeda for comfort, but instead, he listened.

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“I simply do not understand how you cannot see the value in Harry joining our family, even if only briefly,” Narcissa was saying, and Harry felt a shock down his spine. Silent, he sank into the couch cushions, hoping if neither sister looked at him, they would forget he was there and let him hear everything his ex-boyfriend’s apparently crazy mother was thinking. Could Draco be right?

Narcissa seemed oblivious to Harry’s thoughts. She also seemed unaware of her sister’s feelings. Harry could see Andromeda starting to bristle. Narcissa — and she had seemed so _sweet_ on Christmas Eve! — continued nonetheless.

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“Andi,” Narcissa continued, “I was thrilled when I learned the boys were dating. Not with the poor way Draco treated Harry, of course, but I was nonetheless excited. For many reasons. I was excited to see Draco shaking up his own self-awareness. I’ve known he was gay for so long, but feared he would never break from his father’s noxious beliefs and have the courage to date actual boys.”

Andromeda and Harry waited, so Narcissa continued, still ignoring Harry. “I also hoped Lucius would hear about the relationship. I want him to understand that he no longer controls Draco’s future.”

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“Lucius needs to see,” Narcissa continued, “his position has been superseded. I am the adult at the Manor now. My word is Malfoy law, not his. And as I wrote Draco, I will not choose a bride for him. His spouse is his decision. And no matter whom Draco eventually chooses, I will give my blessing as long as he or she is kind, smart, and loves Draco as he deserves to be loved: fully and enthusiastically. That would never have happened before Lucius was incarcerated, but I thought that by dating Harry, Draco was showing me that he _understood_.”

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“How did you know Draco liked boys?” Andromeda asked, sounding reluctant.

“I used _somnum loqui_. The one that loosens a sleeper’s tongue?”

“That…” Andromeda seemed to be choosing her words with tremendous care. “...didn’t feel like a violation?”

Narcissa dismissed this with a wave of one hand. “You’re a mother,” she said. “You never once violated Dora’s privacy in order to keep her safe? Never read her diary? Never did a blood spell to track her location? Never researched a friend’s father to make sure he wasn’t a pervert before your precious baby slept at someone else’s house?”

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Andromeda hummed, an annoyed little sound, but didn’t challenge her sister. And Harry realized... she looked somewhat pink.

“I should admit, to be fully honest, I also hoped dating Harry would enhance Draco’s social status.”

“That wasn’t your primary reason?” Andromeda asked, sounding like she again felt on solid ground.

“I do not believe so,” Narcissa said. She shrugged. “I’d no expectation that the relationship would last. When I told Draco he was much too young to marry, I meant it. You and Ted were an exception, darling. Hardly anyone can well choose their whole future at such an age.”

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“My goal, more than social status, more than _anything_, is for Draco to understand our new footing. His new circumstances.

“I am in charge. I won’t push a bride on him. Love matters in marriage. His father’s rules no longer apply. He should seek happiness. And that dating literally _the most eligible bachelor in the entire world_ is a wonderful choice, if Harry is even still interested.”

Harry felt his stomach swoop, but he tried to ignore it.

“And if he doesn’t understand?” Andromeda said.

“Then I hope you will help,” Narcissa snapped. “Since apparently he’s moving in with you.”

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“You’ll thank me when you see his marks,” Andromeda said.

Narcissa sighed. “I am sure you are right. I miss him so when he’s away, but he is quite the wrong age to be permanently under my roof. I know you will take good care of him. And this way he can develop a relationship with little Edward.”

“We call the baby Teddy,” Andromeda said, and Harry heard the love in her voice.

“Isn’t that right, Harry?”

Harry almost made a distressed little meep, but restrained himself in time. “Yeah,” he said instead. Both sisters turned and looked at him.

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“I did not forget you were there, Harry,” Narcissa said. “I chose to be completely frank with both you, and Andromeda. I trust you, Harry, and hope you and Draco can find ways to enjoy one another’s company again. If not, I hope you will at least cease to antagonize one another and make one another unhappy.”

Narcissa turned to Andromeda again. “I should go. I will direct the house-elves to assist Draco with packing.”

She stood, then turned to Harry. “I want you to know I meant everything I said. No matter how foolish, harsh, or unexpected it seemed.”

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Andromeda stood as well. “Harry is perfectly capable of integrating all of this,” she told her sister. She even seemed to believe it. Harry stood, too, mostly so as not to be the only one sitting. But he was taller than both of them, and immediately realized standing up helped him feel more in control.

Narcissa nodded at Andromeda, then at him, and then flooed away before he could do anything other than nod back once.

“I hope that… deluge of information was not overwhelming,” Andromeda said. Harry could only stare. 

She waited, so he searched for the right words.

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“It was… a little overwhelming,” Harry said.

Andromeda sighed. “My sister meant that… torrent of opinion as a sign of respect. I’ll have to reflect before I know whether I agree with everything she said, but I know she meant it. She was telling us the truth, as she understands it.”

Andromeda bowed her head, then wiped at her face in exhaustion. Harry stared. Andromeda was usually terribly stiff-upper-lip. It was disturbing to see her openly display an emotion.

“You’re welcome to stay for dinner, but you should head for Hogwarts if you want to see Draco before he’s gone.”

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Harry swallowed. “Can’t I visit him here, though?”

Andromeda patted Harry’s face so kindly, Harry wanted to sob.

“I would never keep you from Teddy. But Draco needs some time, and I respect that. So, no, I don’t think you will be visiting in quite the same way once Draco moves in. You can owl me any time, or send a Patronus if you prefer. Teddy and I will come visit you, or I can suggest Draco skip dinner, if need be.”

“All right,” Harry choked out. “I understand.”

Andromeda hugged him goodbye. Dejected, Harry Flooed back to Hogwarts, alone.

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Unexpectedly, the Floo spat him into the headmistress’ office.

“Harry dear.” McGonagall smiled at him. “You’re also back early.”

“You spoke with Draco already?” Harry was pretty sure he’d hidden at least most of the misery that wanted to come out with his question, but McGonagall frowned anyway.

“Yes,” she said. “Are you here to follow in his footsteps?”

“M’not withdrawing from Hogwarts, if that’s what you mean,” Harry mumbled. McGonagall gestured at a chair, and Harry slumped into it. 

“You sound sad, child,” McGonagall said. And Harry was so ashamed of himself, but that was when he began sobbing.

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Harry sobbed himself out. McGonagall waited patiently. It took a while, but eventually, when he couldn’t cry another tear, there was hot Brodies tea, and chocolate biscuits, and he’d gone through three enormous (but surprisingly soft) tartan handkerchiefs.

Once he could speak, he gave McGonagall a greatly abbreviated summary of his situation. He was in love with Draco, who was not in love with him. Draco was largely withdrawing to get away from Harry.

“I see,” McGonagall said, as inscrutable as ever, and pushed the plate of biscuits toward Harry, who thought _fuck it_ and took a stack of three.

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“It hurts when love is not returned,” McGonagall said, and Harry wondered what in her past gave those gentle words such weight and depth. He knew better than to ask. Instead he nodded and poured himself more tea.

“Perhaps with more time on your hands,” McGonagall said, “you’d like something to soak that up, give you less time to chew on this.”

Thinking that sounded promising, Harry nodded. 

“I think our new Defense teacher could use your assistance with the practical parts of the curriculum. Would you be willing to lead a club again, to practice some of the spells?”

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“I, probably,” Harry said. He gave it a moment, and still liked the idea, so he put the teacup down and sat up straight. “You know what, yeah. Yeah. that might be really good.”

“Lovely,” McGonagall said. “Let’s assume, tentatively, that we can make that work. Feel free to write up some ideas. You shouldn’t have anyone to distract you this evening as you and Draco are the only students in the castle. I will discuss it with Harnithan, but I think he will be pleased.”

“That… sounds really good, Headmistress,” Harry said. He stood. “I appreciate this a lot.”

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Harry conjured parchment and quill as he left McGonagall’s office. Giving direction little thought, he meandered Hogwarts, instructing the quill to write idea after idea.

Looking up after he’d filled the page front and back, he was honestly surprised to find himself in the Slytherin wing.

Overwhelmed and embarrassed, Harry surrendered to his own subconscious, and knocked on Draco’s door.

“Thank Merlin,” Draco exclaimed, yanking Harry inside by his collar.

“Are you here for one last spectacular night together? Because I’ve been packing as slowly as humanly possible for fucking _hours_, hoping every tiny noise in the corridor was you.”

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“Fuck.” Harry’s heart was suddenly trying to tear his chest open. He dropped his parchment and quill by Draco’s door.

“Hell, yes.” Ignoring the warning in his mind, screaming this was a _BAD IDEA_, Harry grabbed Draco. Kissed him. 

“Gonna fuck you good,” Draco said, trying to simultaneously tear off his and Harry’s clothes. “You’ll never forget tonight.”

“Jesus. Yes,” Harry whined. This was a terrible idea. He’d be ruined when this was done. Raided. Sacked. 

“We record tonight,” Draco panted. He was trying to rip off his shoes, but his trousers were in the way. “Sex, sleep talk, everything.”

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Draco looked up at Harry. Hopeful, nervous and so sexy Harry wanted to bite him.

“Then we’ll have all the memories we need, and we’ll stay apart because we can get a Pensieve fix whenever we want.”

“I know the spell your mother used,” Harry agreed, helping Draco untangle trousers from shoes. “She told Andromeda. It was _somnum loqui_. That’s how she listened to you talk in your sleep.”

“Great,” Draco said. “We’ll use it tonight. We’ll record it all. I’ll finally know what I say.”

“Anything you want, Draco,” Harry said, and threw himself, finally naked, onto the bed.

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That night Draco seemed possessed. Harry didn’t have to make a single decision, offer one suggestion. Yet everything Draco did was exactly what Harry wanted.

Every kiss was perfect. Every thrust of Draco’s gorgeous cock. Every murmured word. Every caress, every firm grasp, and every confident push. 

Everything he took was something Harry wanted to give. Everything he gave was just what Harry wanted to receive. 

And his beauty…. Draco shone. With confidence, with prowess, and with sweat.

Harry’s wank bank was set for the rest of his life. He would never need to jerk off outside his Pensieve again.

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Harry had his first orgasm that night on his back while Draco fucked him.

Harry came again while Draco fucked him from behind and treated him to the slowest, most torturous, most delicious handjob. 

Harry came a third time while he rode Draco hard. Harry’s old friend of a wedge pillow was back under Draco’s arse; adding energy and thrust to their every bounce.

Harry assumed he would be embarrassed, later, to hear himself in these memories, but if — while Draco’s cock was slamming his prostate — he was less than poetic… well. Repetition was neither a sin, nor an insult.

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“Wanna blowjob?” Harry finally asked, not actually sure he had the energy to give Draco a good one.

“Nah,” Draco said. “Your arse is where I wanted to come. Like watching your face while we fuck. You love my cock. Makes me feel like a man.”

They barely remembered to have Harry cast _somnum loqui_ before they fell asleep.

\- - - - - - -

In the morning, Harry woke feeling spectacular, sore and adored.

This did not last.

Draco woke shortly after Harry did, and went from cuddled close to Harry’s back, to leaping away and rushing to the shower with hardly a word spoken.

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They parted, awkward and grumpy. The last thing Draco said to Harry was “you, uh, still have my permission to keep all our recordings, jerk off to them, anything. Anything but showing them to anyone else. Okay?” Then he shut the door in Harry’s face.

Harry returned to his room and felt himself deflate, suddenly exhausted all over again. He put his recordings in his Pensieve, put the DADA notes he barely remembered on his desk. Then he fell onto his bed, still fully dressed, and did not wake until Ron and Hermione banged on his door, just before lunch.

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Draco sat on his bed and forced himself not to cry. _Honestly_. He was a man, now! A proper Malfoy. Fucking boys was a childhood indulgence he would never again need to entertain.

He levitated his recordings into the air. There was last night’s sex, and last night’s sleep-talk — if he’d even said anything in his sleep last night. He’d rushed Harry away before he thought to ask. 

Next to them floated the “porny presentation” they’d crafted so carefully. 

Next to them was a set of memories Draco cherished. 

Harry, falling asleep with such trust, naked in Draco’s arms.

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Harry, looking at Draco with both overwhelming hope and honesty, clear in his eyes.

Harry on his knees, looking up from the floor of Draco’s tiny, utilitarian dormitory shower. Barely fitting in the space, somehow still sexier than anyone had a right to be, but nonetheless looking at Draco like _he’d_ invented magic.

Harry on that terrible, wonderful park bench, quietly admitting “I think... I love you.”

Furious, miserable, and disgusted with himself, Draco cast Reducto and watched, horrified, as all of his memories and recordings burnt to ash in the air of his packed up dormitory bedroom. 

Unrecoverable. Forever.

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Honestly, Harry already knew he should _not_ watch those recordings, but neither could he make himself destroy them. Classes resumed, days passed. Finally Andromeda owled a dinner invitation.

Draco was not there, and Harry pretended that was what he’d expected.

The next day, hoping for distractions, Harry went to Professor Harnithan, who loved all Harry’s ideas. Soon Harry was running two clubs: basic and advanced, and running two study groups, as well. He learned he still loved teaching, but even better was the way he could once again reliably fall asleep every night without feeling a need to masturbate first.

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Eventually, nonetheless, Harry reached an end to his rope. He hadn’t had sex in three long, sad months. The stress of NEWT revision was getting to him (and all his classmates). And, this particular rainy Thursday night, he just could not manage to fall asleep.

So, cursing his weakness, Harry threw a random recording of Draco into his Pensieve and went in after it; prepared to simply masturbate, come, fall asleep. 

He had Draco’s permission, he told himself. Therefore he wasn’t doing anything wrong by watching memories of them in bed together.

He was not prepared for what he saw.

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There they were in the dusky half-light of enchantment, the two of them snuggled together in the very center of the bed. There was more than enough room in that damn bed for both of them to stretch out, have their own half. Nonetheless they’d curled together, close as a pair of puppies.

And Draco was talking. Was he sleeping? Probably? Harry couldn’t be certain, but he _could_ make out most of the words.

“Love you, Harry,” Draco murmured into Harry’s neck. “Yr so fuckin’ sexy. Always. M’so gay, Harry. Want you always, y’know.”

How had Harry _slept_ through this?

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Draco had spent thirty minutes murmuring spellforced honesty into Harry’s hair: endearments, words of love, assertions of homosexuality.

Miserable, trying not to fill his heart with hope, Harry ignored his better judgement and listened — rapt — to every word. Draco loved him. Wanted him. Was utterly and completely queer. And yet, they’d not so much as waved at one another from across a large room in three months. 

Eventually, Draco stopped murmuring, Harry stopped weeping, and Harry fell asleep right there in his Pensieve. 

In the morning he woke with a terrible crick in his neck and a thoroughly broken heart.

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That very day he got McGonagall’s permission to head to London, where he put every single memory and recording of Draco into a double-locked box and secured that box inside his Gringott’s vault.

He might not be able to make himself destroy them, but he could not have them close by. Whatever _somnum loqui_ might do to ‘loosen a sleeper’s tongue,’ however honest the spell might force a sleeper to be; Harry had no choice but to believe that Draco’s actions spoke far, far louder than his words. Especially when those words were spoken only under a spell, while asleep.

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Somehow, time continued. Harry attended class, revised for NEWTs, taught two DADA study groups and lead both DADA clubs. Hermione and Ron learned not to mention Draco.

Despite missing Draco every day, he felt terribly mature.

Easter hols came and went. 

NEWTs were approaching. Soon none of the 7th or 8th years could think or talk about much else. 

Harry revised so hard, so often, so seriously, even Hermione would sometimes put a hand to his forehead, worried. Harry would scowl, but allow it. Everyone would move on.

NEWTs day came, and Harry felt himself vibrating, with nerves, eagerness. Hope.

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Would he see Draco today? Potter and Malfoy were close, alphabetically. Maybe they would… speak? Maturely? He had no idea what tests Draco’d even prepared for, other than Potions and Arithmancy. Harry wasn’t taking either.

Would Draco take the DADA exam? Harry had been pushing that question away for months.

He would.

He was there, waiting in the hall near Harry, making small talk with Su Li. He was facing away from Harry. Harry maneuvered himself to the other side of the hall.

Draco looked… good. Handsome. Calm.

Harry heard his name, and entered the classroom, ready for the practical.

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After his last examination, Harry drifted toward the Great Hall, sapped and hankering for Shepherd’s pie.

He knew the mature thing would be not to say a word about him, but he couldn’t stay silent. “Has anyone seen Draco since the DADA exam?”

Hermione patted his hand. Parvati gave him a look of pity. Neville raised one eyebrow. Ron sighed.

Only Seamus gave Harry an actual answer. “Saw him Floo out an hour ago, mate. Sorry.” 

Harry held back every reaction that threatened to break free, except his burning and prickling face. “Ah,” he said, and piled his plate high.

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Harry told himself he’d learned his lesson. “Never fall for a straight boy.”

_Or a closeted one._

He buried his feelings and talked career options with McGonagall. 

He ignored the pain as he packed to leave Hogwarts. 

He went out for a huge, celebratory Roy Alley dinner with a dozen friends and promised himself he was done thinking about Draco. 

He weighed teaching offers with Hermione and Molly Weasley, saying leaving England was a good way to get magical teaching experience, while thinking being unlikely to run into Draco at Beauxbatons was a bonus he had no need to mention.

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Harry settled in quickly at Beauxbatons. English seemed a good introduction to teaching, even if DADA at Hogwarts was his ultimate goal. He learned grammar along with pedagogy, lesson planning along with classroom management, diagramming sentences along with cognitive maps. He learned the other teachers’ names and quirks, learned not to ask how often Hagrid visited, learned which French foods he liked and how to get into the kitchens.

He explored the French countryside, planned Ron and Hermione’s visits, and continually promised himself that “next weekend” he would head into gayest Bayonne and try to meet a nice young Frenchman.

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Harry taught English lessons at Beauxbatons for six years, eagerly returning to England every summer, every holiday. He went home for Ron and Hermione’s wedding. Ginny and Luna’s, too.

France never quite felt like home, but teaching increasingly did.

When Draco married Asteria, Harry heard through Andromeda. A thousand crazy scenarios zipped through his head for weeks: disrupting his thoughts, paining his dreams. But he didn’t show up to interrupt their wedding. He didn’t owl Draco an intimate memory dug from deep under Gringotts. 

Instead he drank a little too much, graded his students a bit more harshly. 

Time passed.

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When Harnithan finally left Hogwarts and McGonagall owled, suggesting Harry apply for the DADA position, he had to force himself not to put in notice at Beauxbatons until he’d actually been offered the job.

When Ginny then asked if he would father her and Luna’s kids, Harry hardly had to think. “I’m in!” he said. The three started house hunting together. 

They eventually bought a huge patch of land positioned vaguely between Luna’s Dad and the Burrow, fighting constantly with the architect and arriving, finally, in a large house for the women, a two bedroom cottage next door for Harry.

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Ginny fell pregnant the first time they tried the ritual. They named the baby James.

Harry still never visited a gay bar, neighborhood, volunteer group. He told himself he had learned that lesson without having to suffer for it.

The newspaper eventually stopped speculating on his non-existant love life, his confusing three-way asexual intimacy with Luna and Ginny.

They named the second baby Pandora.

Andromeda showed Harry pictures: Draco holding his own son, unfortunately named Scorpius.

Draco looked proud, miserable and rigid. Baby Scorpius, though, was adorable.

They named the third baby Frederick. Years flew by.

Then, Harry met Michael.

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Luna’s Dad knew Michael’s father, so when they returned to England after decades, she invited them to a party. Michael and Dzmitry arrived halfway through the evening, the only guests Harry didn’t recognize.

Michael embodied tall, dark, and handsome.

Clearly gay.

Terrifying. 

Having grown up mostly in Guyana and Belarus, Michael knew nothing about Harry. When he found out, weeks after the _first_ time he asked Harry on a date (and got rejected), Michael was impressed, but Harry knew the attraction wasn’t about “heroics.” Michael was genuinely attracted to him: as a man, a person, and (potentially) a sexual being.

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Harry hadn’t felt like a “sexual being” since some time during his first year of teaching. He turned Michael’s invitation down out of reflex. Harry Potter simply did not _date_. Harry Potter taught. Raised his children. Supported Ginny and Luna and was supported by them in return. Was a dedicated friend to Andromeda Tonks and deeply involved godfather to Teddy Lupin.

So, he did not date. He did not have sex, either, for that matter. He was, obviously, too busy. And he didn’t need that. And it was just too painful anyway. Things like dating offered only opportunities for mistakes.

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Michael just kept coming round, though. Luna invited him over for summer picnics and swimming hole parties. Ginny started inviting him over, too. Then Arthur took a liking to Dzmitry and started inviting him to things, to which he often brought Michael.

And Michael… grew on Harry.

He was kind, first of all.

He was good with children.

He was intelligent.

He was well-spoken. Knew multiple languages, too. 

But Harry thought about a lithe, blond teenager who’d lit up his body and torn up his heart, and kept his distance.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

Harry ran into Draco at Gringotts.

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Harry hadn’t been this close to Draco for well over a dozen years.

Thirty-one looked good on him.

Draco was guiding Harry off into a hallway, but still inside the main bank. Laughing nervously. Saying something about this meeting being a happy accident. Suggesting the world didn’t need to hear them catch up.

And Draco was talking. Something about his son. Scorpius was the same age as Pandora, maybe they would be friends at Hogwarts? Maybe they should get the children together, maybe the adults, too.

Harry could hardly follow the conversation, let alone contribute. Blood pounded in his ears.

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Harry let Draco take him by the elbow, though his touch meant all the sound in the world would be swallowed by Harry’s speeding heart and overburdened lungs, by the rushing in his ears.

Harry assumed Draco was leading him to a coffee shop, a library, anywhere both public and secluded. But the Floo took them to an empty room Harry didn’t recognize. 

Helplessly, Harry swallowed and stood there, on (Draco’s?) white carpet, where the Floo had succeeded in spitting him out. Staring at Draco. All was soundless but for the horrible smashing of his heart, fast against his ribs.

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Following Draco’s hand motions, Harry managed to sit in a chair, accept a cup of conjured, mediocre tea, watch Draco kindle a fire in the Floo so they could watch the crackling logs.

Draco babbled away, still soundless. Harry tried to slow his breathing.

Eventually, Draco’s nervous murmurings were audible.

“—with my Mother,” Draco said, and Harry finally forced himself to nod.

“Oh good,” Draco said, looking stupidly relieved. “You’re actually in there.”

Harry tried to keep annoyance off his face. Though he’d years of practice, Draco was more observant than self-involved teenagers. Harry knew immediately he had not succeeded.

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Blushing and guilty, Harry almost apologized. Then, he pulled himself up short. Why should he prioritize _Draco’s_ comfort? Yes, it was years ago, but the man destroyed Harry’s heart; perhaps beyond repair.

Draco must’ve seen some of _that_ on Harry’s face, too, because he quickly slid into words of placation, supplication, then something close to desperation.

“My mother was right,” he said. 

“I was a fool to let you go,” he begged. 

“I’ve considered divorcing Asteria,” he blurted. 

“I miss us more than I can stand. Let me make this right,” he confessed.

Harry held up a hand.

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“You say you’ve _considered_ divorce, though you ‘miss us more than you can stand’?”

Hope bloomed in Draco’s eyes, so Harry moved to kill it. Draco was a crisis, waiting to explode. Harry’d no need of _that_.

“It’s been over a dozen years, Draco. I’m not who I was at nineteen. Back then, I thought I needed a man. I was wrong. I’ve excised that part of myself. It’s gone. My life is full without romantic love. I’ve no need of it, and I’ve lost the will to risk my heart, or what’s left of it.”

Harry straightened his back.

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“I expend my love parentally, on my children and their mothers. I’ve no need for romance, sex or lust. That part of me is gone,” he repeated.

“Which is a good thing,” he said as he stood. He was back in control and felt perfectly steady. “Because you are clearly, still, a catastrophe-in-waiting, not to mention a nasty snake. You’ve shown me today you are selfish, lustful, and probably a bad father. Your sheer lack of scruples disgust me. I hope your poor wife deserves you. I am quite sure Scorpius does not. I know that I no longer do.”

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“You see I,” he said, stepping even further away, “am not a back-up plan. Your Floo will let me out, yes?”

Draco stood. “Give me one year, Harry,” he said, trying to look stoic. He managed it everywhere but right around the eyes. “See me in a year. Please?”

Harry sighed and stepped closer to the Floo. Draco waved his wand and murmured a reopening spell, and Harry knew nothing was keeping him there except his own manners.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” he said, but Draco stepped in front of the floo and tried one more time.

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“Don’t promise you will,” he tried, “but don’t swear you won’t, either. Please?”

“All right,” Harry said, suddenly tired deep into his bones. 

He flooed away.

He crawled into bed at 4 in the afternoon.

He slept until dawn.

When Harry woke, he began writing. “Your interest flatters, but I don’t return it. I’m sorry. Please don’t ask me out again. 

“I hope you can turn your eyes to another man, one not consumed by work and family.” He attached it to Phoenix’s outstretched leg.

“To Michael Kalinoŭski,” he instructed, and watched as she flew off through the lightening skies.

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The end. 


End file.
